


The Black Hart

by elrhiarhodan, Kyele



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: (not to main characters), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bedsharing, F/F, Forced Medical Examination, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Michelle/Bedivere, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Roxy/Tilde, Roxy/Tristan, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, forced drugging, non-consensual digital penetration during medical exam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 137,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: Eggsy Unwin, the junior secretary to Lord Chester King, trustee for the young Lord Roxanne Morton of Morton Crescent, is sent to London to deliver letters of great importance.  He does not know that he is a pawn in dangerous game between the greedy and determined Lord Chester and Lord Harry Hart, the leader of a group of military spies and now the owner of several less than legal businesses, including the gambling hell, The Black Hart.Roxanne Morton is trapped in her life, an adult in body but not in law, thanks to the terms of the late Percival Morton's will. When Eggsy Unwin mysteriously vanishes, she is drawn into a chain of events that will challenge everything she thinks she knows about her parents, her inheritance - and herself.





	1. The Journey Begins

**Author's Note:**

> A Kingsman Fic Wars Story. Odd numbered chapters (Regency/Harry and Eggsy) are written by Elrhiarhodan. Even numbered chapters (Noir/Roxy) are written by Kyele.
> 
> Tags to be added as the story progresses. 
> 
> In fact: first tag update 3/3/18! The archive warning Rape/Non-Con has been removed, while the attempted rape/non-con tag has been added. Sorry for the confusion, there's no actual rape in this story! There is also now an implied/referenced rape/non-con tag for discussions of the attempts, and also because Charlie is probably a bag of dicks, although that's all off-screen and doesn't affect the main characters or plot at all. Please read accordingly :)
> 
> Second tag update - For Chapter Eleven: Forced Medical Examination, forced drugging, non-consensual digital penetration during medical exam
> 
> Third tag update - For Chapters Twelve and Thirteen: Brief suicidal ideation.

Eggsy tries to walk at a dignified pace, but Dagonet, the steward here at Morton Crescent, had told him that the lord needed to see him. _Urgently_. 

Urgent means running, but gentlemen - even if that gentleman is a one-time stable boy who's somehow become the lord of the manor's junior secretary - simply do not run. Especially not through the halls of said manor with their freshly polished marble floors. None the less, Eggsy's slightly breathless as he gets to Lord Chester's study. He pauses, just long enough to smooth back his hair and check that his attire is presentable, and knocks.

Lord Chester is a stickler for manners and it had taken quite a bit of training before Eggsy could remember not to barge in. So he waits. And waits. And waits some more. Apparently Dagonet's instructions on urgency had been incorrect.

But finally, Eggsy hears the command to enter.

He opens the door and closes it behind him. But he doesn't enter the room; protocol requires that he stand and wait for further instructions.

"Ah, Miss Unwin. Come here."

Eggsy can't say that he actually likes his employer. Lord Chester King, who isn't actually the current Earl of Morton – just the trustee for the estate until Lord Roxanne comes of age, is an oily sort of man, one who cares more for his horses and his dogs and the display of his vast wealth, than he does for the well-being of the people who support the estate - the servants and tenants.

He's just the type of man to summon his junior secretary _urgently_ on his day off, and then keep him waiting.

"How may I be of service, M'lord." Eggsy bites his lip, annoyed at himself for letting his diction slip. Lord Chester is quite particular about such things.

But Lord Chester doesn't correct him. In fact, he doesn't notice the m'lord instead of 'my lord'. He's busy at his desk, papers and ledgers scattered across the entire surface. Eggsy stifles a sigh, knowing that he'll be spending the best part of the evening straightening out this mess.

"Have you ever been to Cambridge, Miss Unwin?"

"No, my lord." Eggsy's never traveled any further than Plymouth, where he had been born, to Morton Crescent, just on the other side of St. Austell. Every quarter or so, Lord Chester sends him back to Plymouth to conduct some business, deliver letters of instruction, wait for replies. He's only gone for a week at the most. Cambridge is further away than London and might as well be on the moon for all that Eggsy cares.

"My son, Charles, is currently finishing his studies in Cambridge, however, he has found himself in a bit of trouble this semester."

Eggsy keeps a straight face, but he's worried. Anything to do with The Honorable Charlie is worrisome. Lord Chester's son is someone to be avoided at all costs, especially if you're a servant and even more especially if you're an Omega. The Honorable Charlie is also a gambler and a wastrel, never able to stay within his allowance.

"Do you wish me to draft a letter of instruction to your bank, my lord?" Eggsy looks at the mess on Lord Chester's desk, hoping to spot a few clean sheets of foolscap to write out a draft. There's none in sight.

"Yes, of course. And you will take to Lord Charles in Cambridge. But there will be other letters, too important to go by post. Those I wish you to carry to London personally."

Eggsy again has a moment when he's not sure his hearing's working. "Me, to London?"

Lord Chester sighs and gives him an irritated look. "That is what I said, Mr. Unwin. These letters are too important to trust to the vagrancies of the post. I need them hand delivered to my sister, Earl Hesketh, by someone I can trust. And I do - despite your unfortunate upbringing - trust you."

Eggsy feels his cheeks flame at the insult buried in the compliment, but he holds his tongue. He and his mum and his little sister might have secured a place here at Morton Crescent because of his father's bravery, something that Lord Chester can't take away, but he could do much to make their lives a misery. Like take away the private cottage that they live in, like tell the vicar that Daisy can't attend school with the village children anymore. Like take his mother - an Omega like Eggsy - to his bed whether she wants to be there or not.

No, one doesn't talk back to Alphas like Lord Chester King, not if one wants to stay safe.

Nor does one even think of mentioning one's incipient heat. Since coming to Morton Crescent, having a regular job with regular meals and no beatings from his bastard of a stepfather, Eggsy's heats have become as, well, regular as clockwork. He's due in about twelve days and he's thinking that if things don't get tied up to badly in London, he'll be home just before the first wave crests.

The very thought of being caught anywhere near that wanker, Charlie, while in heat, makes Eggsy's blood run cold. The few times their paths have crossed, The Honorable Charlie's made it quite clear that he thinks Eggsy's a jumped up mushroom who's only good for one thing - servicing Charlie's most dishonorable Alpha cock.

Lord Chester continues talking, completely oblivious to Eggsy's panic. "Because of the urgency, you will travel by my private coach but you will not be stopping overnight. I'll instruct the staff to prepare meals for you and you will be permitted to stop several times during the day for your … health." The pause is delicate, as if Lord Chester doesn't actually believe that people need to take a shit. "But those stops will be brief - at least on the outbound trip. You may take your leisure on the way home."

Eggsy's okay with the urgency, after all, he's got his own urgency to deal with. He needs to be home and safe and locked up in his mum's cottage before his heat hits. He's not looking forward to it, he never does - five days of sweat and slick and spunk and soul-aching loneliness - but he'll get through it. He always does.

And if he dreams of finding an Alpha to mate with, to mark him, to knot him, to give him pups and care for him like he's read in the novels that Lord Roxy lends him, well, that's his secret, isn't it? It's all kinds of fucked up funny – because until he'd met Lord Roxy and listened to her stories able how much her sire and carrier loved each other, he really hadn't believed that those kind of Alphas really existed.

Lord Chester shuffles through the ruin on his desk and pulls out a small stack of letters, already drafted and sealed and then bound with a black ribbon. Eggsy has to assume that Andrew, Lord Chester's senior secretary, had prepared the packet, but when Lord Chester hands them to Eggsy, Eggsy sees that they are addressed in Lord Chester's own spidery handwriting.

"You will carry these to Earl Hesketh in London and she will give you further instructions and where they are to be delivered." The Earl Hesketh is Lord Chester's older sister; Eggsy had met her once and found her to be exceedingly unpleasant. Rude to the staff, even ruder to Lord Roxy, but fawning on Charlie like he's the second coming of Christ. No, Eggsy's certainly not happy to have to go see the old bat.

Eggsy tucks the packet inside his livery jacket. "The letter of instruction, my lord? For your son?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Lord Chester waves a hand over towards a small writing table against the wall, the one that Eggsy uses to produce final drafts. "You know what to write, I'll sign it when you're done."

Eggsy's surprised at that. Lord Chester is a stickler, he dictates everything – even the most routine correspondence. But far be it for a former stable boy-turned-junior secretary to contradict his master. And besides, he's written enough of these letters to know just what to say, except for one thing.

"The amount, my lord? How much do you wish the bank to release?"

Lord Chester makes a face, but Eggsy's not sure if the annoyance is directed at him or at the situation. "A hundred pounds should be sufficient to cover Charlie until next Quarter-day." 

Eggsy can't help but compare that to his own salary – ten pounds a year, which he'd thought quite princely once upon a time; it's twice what his mum makes. It's all kinds of aggravating – he and his mum and all the staff here at Morton Crescent work hard every day of the week, but they see little reward for their labors. The Honorable Charlie, on the other hand, is a lazy wastrel who does nothing but run up bills at his tailor and fritter away his allowance at the gambling tables. And that quarterly allowance is ten times more than Eggsy and his mum make in a year. 

He gives Lord Chester the finished letter for his signature and seal and thinks that his life would have been so much better if he's been born with a silver spoon up his arse.

"I want you on the road tonight, before the dinner hour, so you'd best get your things together."

Eggsy doesn't exactly have a lot of "things"; he had his livery, a nice jacket and waistcoat and pair of breeches for church and holidays, and two other shirts. He has the shoes on his feet and the rough boots he'd worn when he worked in the stables. That's it. And of course, his smallclothes. Members of the household staff are required to put on fresh ones every day, instead of just on Sundays after the weekly baths. 

Pity that Lord Chester doesn't follow those rules, because sometimes, especially in the summer, he stinks like a privy and Eggsy can't hold his breath for that long.

Today, thank goodness, it seems that Lord Chester has bathed and put on fresh smallclothes, because he doesn't reek as bad as usual. Eggsy takes the letter of instruction that Lord Chester has signed and sealed and adds it to the packet he's already carrying.

"Will there be anything else, my lord?"

"No, Miss Unwin. Mr. Dagonet will give you a purse to cover your expenses on your journey, but I do expect a full accounting on your return for what you've spent."

Eggsy nods and keeps his annoyance from his face; as if he's going to get receipts from the posting inns when they stop. He does remember his manners and says, "Thank you."

Lord Chester turns his attention back to the mess of papers on his desk and waves him off. 

Eggsy heads back to the front of the house to find the steward, Dagonet. He truly likes the elderly man, for the uppermost of the upper servants; he's still a kind person who treats everyone with equal courtesy. Perhaps because he's a legacy from when the real Mortons ruled Morton Crescent. Lord Roxy's told her how her sire, Percival and her carrier, James, had been the kindest people in the world and that they had simply expected everyone in their employ to be just as kind.

"Ah, Miss Unwin – you have received your instructions from Lord Chester?"

"Yes, Mr. Dagonet. He says I'm to travel to Cambridge and then London to deliver some letters. That I'm to take his private coach."

"Well, not his own personal traveling coach, but one of the smaller ones." Dagonet smiles, and adds in a low voice, "and believe me, you'll be a happier traveler. The small coach is less – ah – well decorated that Lord Chester's coach, but much more comfortable. It's the one that _Arlodh_ Morton and _Arlodhes_ James preferred."

"Thanks, guv – you're the best." Eggsy loves that Dagonet uses the ancient Cornish stylings for the old lord and his mate. He also loves that he's getting to travel in comfort, rather than in style.

"I've taken the liberty of having Cook to prepare a basket for you - something a little heartier than what she usually gives you for your regular trips to Plymouth. And as Lord Chester's instructed, you are to travel swiftly, with no overnight stops unless absolutely necessary, so I've also included some additional items for your comfort. You dam has also packed your clothes and a few extra items you might find – ah – necessary, if the journey's extended."

Dagonet's wrinkled cheeks are a bit pink, so Eggsy's pretty certain that his mum's packed pads to mop up his slick. Dagonet actually knows Eggsy's heat cycle. He knows the cycles of all the Omegas and Alphas on the estate and makes certain that they have the time off to deal with their biological imperatives in a safe and healthy way.

"Again, sir – you're the best."

Dagonet hands him a small pouch – the promised funds from Lord Chester. "Go on, now, Miss Unwin. Your dam's waiting for you by the coach. Say your goodbyes and be off."

Eggsy heads out to the courtyard, where a small traveling coach and a team of two are harnessed. He lets out a small sigh; even though he'll be traveling in comfort, it's going to be a very long trip. Lord Chester's traveling coach has a team of four and the big Mail coach that he takes to Plymouth is pulled by six horses. At best, he'll be six days and nights on the road.

But those dreary thoughts leave his head when his mum and his baby sister come out to see him off. The late afternoon sun turns Daisy's hair to spun gold and his mother's just a shade or two darker. 

"Ah, look at the two of you. My pretty girls." He doesn't get much of a chance to see his mum during the day. He's an upper servant and while Michelle works as an upstairs maid, she's classed with the lower servants and their paths rarely cross. 

"Mr. Dagonet says you have to travel for his lordship. That you're going all the way to London." Michelle looks worried. "And so close to your time, too."

"I know, mum. Nothing to do about it except just do." Eggsy kisses her cheek and lets the scent of freshly baked bread and an undercurrent of crisp apples wash over him. It's too ironic that she'd been married to someone named Baker, a man who wouldn't know what do with a rolling pin except use it as a weapon. But Dean's gone and their lives are better for it.

"I guess you're right, sweetie. We've got a good life here. You've got a chance to really make something of yourself."

Eggsy hopes so. There will come a day when Lord Roxy comes into her inheritance and she's said that he'll always have a place in her household. Something more than a junior secretary run ragged. "Yeah, so I got to do what Lord Chester wants." He kisses Daisy, who's been growing like her namesake flower under the summer sun. It's hard to believe his little flower's five year's old.

Daisy giggles. "Stop tha' Eggsy - you're all scratchy." 

Eggsy rubs his chin. Daisy's right, he's getting bristly. As an Omega, he only needs to shave once a week. But there's no time for that now. "I'll bring you both back something from London. And I'll write to you like always. Look for my letter on Monday, all right?"

"You're such a love; such a good son."

Eggsy hopes he is. These two ladies are his entire life.

The driver, impatient to be off, jingles the harnesses. Michelle gives him another hug and passes him a small package. "The books on your nightstand. Figure you'll need something to keep your mind going. Keep you out of mischief."

Eggsy tucks the package in his livery pocket. "Thanks, mum. You know me too well." He kisses her again and gets into the waiting carriage. As it pulls away, he watches Michelle and Daisy wave, and the way the light shimmers over them, the look a little ghostly. 

Eggsy shivers and tries not to feel like this is an omen.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	2. The Housemaid

The housemaid visits early in the morning.

Roxy is the only one in the family who gets up early. Her sluggard cousin Charlie lays abed until noon. Her lecherous uncle Chester, Lord King, also remains in bed – though _he’s_ not usually sleeping. Regardless, visiting Roxy in the morning is a good way to make sure she’s the only one in the family who’s awake. Not to mention that early in the morning, before the family are awake, is one of the few free periods of time a servant has.

“I’m sorry to bother you like this,” the housemaid says, twisting the ring around her finger. Widowed, not married. Michelle Unwin is her name. Widow of Lee Unwin, who’d served with Roxy’s sire on the Continent before catching a bullet to the throat. In other families, saving someone’s life entitles the surviving widow to something a little more considerate than a position as upper housemaid. Not in the Morton family. At least, not since Roxy’s sire, the last Lord Morton, had died in that same war. Until Roxy reaches the age of twenty-five and finds a ‘suitable mate’, the estate is in the not-so-capable hands of her uncle, Lord King, whose generosity had only extended to the position of housemaid and the provision of a small cottage where Michelle could raise her two children. Staying outside of the servants’ quarters also makes Michelle somewhat safer from Chester’s wandering hands. Small mercies.

“It’s all right,” Roxy says, because she has to say it. Michelle has to apologize for bothering Roxy, and Roxy has to assure her it’s quite all right. There’s a certain formality to be gone through when a servant needs to speak to a member of the family on a private matter.

“It’s just that it’s Wednesday,” Michelle goes on.

This remark is not particularly illuminating, but Roxy nods.

“Eggsy left last Monday week,” Michelle says. “He should have arrived in Cambridge by Friday. Which means he should have had time to write me on Saturday. He always writes me on Saturdays, when he’s away. And I get the letter on Mondays. Always, Lord Morton.”

This begins to clear things up. Eggsy is Michelle’s elder pup, the only one she’d borne Lee. An Omega, he serves Roxy’s uncle as junior secretary. And he’s usually as reliable as the sun.

Roxy surmises: “You haven’t got a letter?”

Michelle shakes her head. “No, my Lord. Not this week. He wrote once on the road. But this week there’s been no letter at all. And I tried not to worry too much over it – ”

“He may have needed the time to settle in. Or my cousin may have had several tasks waiting for him. Has the post come yet today? The letter may have been only a little delayed.”

“That’s just it, my Lord,” Michelle says worriedly. “The post _has_ come. But no letter. And you know Eggsy. So responsible. He knows I’ll have been worrying over him, with that long journey and traveling so close to his time, too – though I’m sure Lord King knows what he’s about – ”

Roxy waves this aside. Her uncle certainly has no idea what he’s about, but that’s not for this conversation. “Eggsy would have found time to send a few lines, if nothing else, to assure you of his safe arrival.”

Michelle nods. “He would have, ma’am. I asked Lord King if he’d heard anything, leaving the question kind of open, like, and he snapped back at me that if anything had happened he’d be the first to know and I should stop worrying my pretty head about it. But it’s just not _like_ Eggsy.” She dabs her eyes with her apron. “ _You_ know.”

Roxy does know. She’s known Eggsy – actually Gary – Unwin since Michelle had come to the estate three years ago, and rather better than one usually knows the average servant. She’d had a special interest from Eggsy from the start, since he’d started out in the stables, and quickly become entrusted with her favorite hunter. A good hand with manual labor, and sensitive enough to understand horses, besides. Of course they say Omegas usually _are_ more sensitive to an animals’ needs. Part of the same instincts that make them good carriers to their pups. And even for an Omega, Eggsy Unwin is unusually reliable and tuned in to the needs of others. He’s had to be, with his sire – Lee – dying on him at such an awkward age, right before puberty. And then his carrier – Michelle – taking up with some criminal to try and get by, instead of just coming straight to Roxy’s sire like she should have done…

If she’d come while Percival Morton had still been alive, he’d have taken care of her and Eggsy both as they’d deserved. But Michelle had tried to handle it on her own, and the consequence of it is that by the time she’d turned up at Morton Crescent, her second mate dead on a gibbet and a brand-new pup in her arms as well as Eggsy at her side, Percival had been six months dead. So Michelle, like Roxy, had received exactly what had been left for her in Percival’s will and no more.

In a way, Percival had put more thought into the inheritance of the family of his former comrade-at-arms than he had into his own heir. The will had stipulated that there would be places in the household, in perpetuity, for Michelle and any legitimate children she’d borne Lee. And that they would have the use of one of the cottages nearby for as long as they lived on the estate. A steady income stream and a dwelling to call their own: it’s more than Roxy gets, unless she mates.

But Roxy is woolgathering. The material point is, she _does_ know Eggsy. Knows him to be a responsible, conscientious youth. Even Uncle Chester admits as much, speaking of course in reference to Eggsy’s position as Chester’s junior secretary. And that’s high praise, grudgingly given, from someone who thinks that an Omega’s only purpose is to swing off a knot.

“You’re right,” Roxy tells Michelle. “It’s not like him to leave you worrying. Why don’t I ask Uncle Chester if he’s had a letter from Charlie in the last few days? If he has, and he mentions Eggsy, then all is well. If he hasn’t got a letter, then probably the whole post is delayed somewhere down the line.”

Michelle looks hopeful. “Lord Charles writes regularly to his sire?”

Asks for money regularly, more like. “He writes at least weekly,” Roxy assures Michelle. “If we haven’t heard from him yet, we will in the next few days. And Eggsy too, I’ll wager. I’ll ask my Uncle and let you know as soon as we get a letter.”

“Oh, thank you, my Lord, thank you!” Michelle’s bobbed curtsey is a difficult sight. Difficult because she’s bad at it, having never been reared to service, and difficult because – well, because she’d never been reared to service. It isn’t right. And it’s no comfort to know that Uncle Chester would love to see Roxy fall a similar distance. To keep her rightful estate for himself, and for Charlie.

Michelle is too happy to notice Roxy’s mood as she bobs again and makes a hasty retreat. By the sound of it, only just in time, for it’s nearly time for breakfast to be laid. Roxy’s own valet will be along any moment to help her dress. But for a few more precious minutes she’s alone. And as always, when she’s alone, her eyes turn to the miniatures of her long-lost parents – and her thoughts to how best to protect her future.

* * *

The terms of Percival Morton’s will are simple. In the same way a hangman’s noose is simple.

Roxy is the eldest Alpha offspring. In fact, the only surviving offspring of any gender. She is therefore the heir. That is the law.

But the entail had allowed Percival to set conditions on her inheritance. Roxy becomes eligible when she has both reached the age of twenty-five – no long way off, now; she will attain her quarter-century at Midsummer – _and_ has taken a mate.

The mate is the problematic part.

Roxy has no turn for Omegas. No turn for carriers in general, in fact. She’d wondered once, when she’d been younger, if she had ought to have been born an Omega herself; but that isn’t right, either. She likes herself, her body, in all its gloriously Alphaic nature. It’s just that those are also the parts of her lovers’ bodies she likes best, too.

She’d tried regardless. She’d thought that surely, among the herd of debutantes and eligible misses, there would be someone else who is like her. Who preferred the company of their own kind, and would be interested in an equitable arrangement. Or failing that, someone whose need to mate might be like Roxy’s own, driven by factors outside their control and worth making a deal to obtain. Someone who needed to get away from a controlling guardian, perhaps. Someone living in genteel poverty who would overlook much in exchange for a life of privilege.

Even, maybe, someone who could be Roxy’s friend.

Roxy stands and crosses to the small cabinet next to the washstand. She doesn’t care how early it is. She needs a drink.

A friend. Hah. There has been no one Roxy can call a friend for many years. Her Uncle has made sure of that.

Just as he’d made sure there would be no mate for Roxy in London. Chester may himself be a mere Lord, but he’d gone to the right schools, and he had more than enough friends among the peerage. They’d sent their Omegas to surround Roxy in London, keeping off anyone who might actually say _yes_ to an offer of mating. Roxy had known perfectly well that they themselves had all been under orders to say _no_ , should Roxy ever have decided to try.

The brandy is amber in the glass. Roxy likes looking at it. The light coming in through the curtains seems to make it dance.

After the one Season, after that period of public visibility to maintain appearances and forestall waving tongues, there had never again been the money for Roxy to go to London. Or to live anywhere else but Morton Crescent – anywhere Roxy might meet someone.

She takes the first sip.

Even here, at Morton Crescent, there’s no chance for Roxy. All the villagers know what would happen if their Omegas dared to raise their eyes to the rightful lord of the manor. The Omegas employed in the house are all mated, or too old or too young for mating – and the young ones sent off to careers elsewhere, as their first heats approach. The lone exception is Michelle’s boy. But though Chester’s snobbery makes him look down on Unwin’s birth and breeding, her Uncle still hadn’t wanted to take any chance at Roxy mating. The moment Roxy had learned Eggsy had existed, Chester had snatched him up to be his junior secretary, and controlled his movements tightly ever since.

But at least Eggsy’s got his place. Protected by Percival’s will. He’s got his income. The cottage. A future. More than Roxy has. As for Michelle’s worries, they’re probably nothing. What danger does she imagine Eggsy could come to, merely traveling between Morton Crescent and Cambridge? The real danger for Eggsy is if he’s somewhere on the estate when Chester decides a fresh young Omega is just to his taste.

Roxy takes another sip and shakes her head. She’s got problems of her own to worry about. Chester is determined to keep Roxy’s inheritance for himself. And for Charlie. For while Chester can only ever have a life-interest in Morton Crescent, Charlie is Roxy’s first cousin – though what their mutual grandsire had been thinking, allowing Chester’s sibling to mate into the family – and should Roxy die without ever attaining her inheritance, without ever siring heirs, the entail ensures that Charlie is next in line.

Chester would have drowned Roxy in the well years ago, if he’d thought he could get away with it.

Fortunately, many of the late Lord Percival Morton’s friends remain alive, well, and _very_ interested in the fate of his only living offspring. If anything happened to her…

They’d swing right into action.

Roxy frowns.

Young Eggsy Unwin has no powerful friends.

Eggsy’s sire had saved Percival’s life once. Roxy remembers. Percival himself had died not long after, so the sacrifice had ultimately come to very little. But Roxy still owes a duty. According to the old ways and the old laws, Roxy owes a duty.

A duty Chester is content to ignore. So what does that make Roxy, if she ignores it likewise?

Damn.

Besides. Michelle had asked. And a true Alpha never turns down an honorable request from an Omega.

Double damn.

If her uncle catches her poking her nose into his business, he really _will_ drown her in the well.

And better that, Roxy thinks suddenly, than a long, slow death, stifled and strangled on the estate that should be hers, with only the few remaining old servants who care.

Roxy puts the brandy down. “You never thought I was worth anything, but you’ll see you were wrong,” she tells the miniatures of Percival and James. “Watch me.”

* * *

Dinner that night is a quiet affair. Roxy and her uncle dine tête-à-tête, as they have for many months now that Charlie is away at Cambridge.

“Excellent weather today,” Roxy notes, as the salad course is withdrawn. “I had an enjoyable ride.”

“That gelding of yours still holding up?” Chester grunts. “Paid too much for her.”

“But only recall, Uncle, how far down you bargained the seller. Why, you paid less than half what he asked.”

“I did at that.” Chester smiles at the recollection.

“You have quite a turn for such matters.”

“I’d have taught you, too, if you’d only listened.”

Roxy preserves a neutral expression. She doesn’t care for browbeating merchants with her title, but Chester is quite proud of throwing his weight around. “I fear I would never have the aptitude for it that you do.”

Chester raises an eyebrow over the sweets plate set in front of him by a soft-footed water. “Soft soap, girl? What’s it now? Some bill?” He snorts. “I’ve just had to write for more funds for Charlie, and now you?”

“No bills at all,” Roxy assures him with perfect truth. “Why, Uncle, what could I get bills for, here on the estate?”

“Nothing, that’s certain,” Chester says in satisfaction. His expression darkens. “Especially not with that stipend of yours.”

Roxy sips her wine, working to conceal her own anger. That stipend, as Chester calls it, is the only part of Roxy’s rightful inheritance actually under her control: a set amount paid to her by the estate every quarter-day, for her education and expenses. It’s not much money, in the grand scheme of things, but from the way Chester howls over having to pay it over it might as well be riches. What makes Roxy’s blood really boil is the way Chester uses the expense as justification for neglecting repairs on the estate or raising rents or charging tenants more for the use of common services. The end of it is that most of what Roxy receives goes straight back into the estate. Whether she has the title or no, she still has a duty of care, and she can’t rightfully sit on money while roofs are leaking or dams bursting.

“It’s not right,” Chester is saying, pursuing his own train of thought. “Hamstrings the entire estate, having to pay a fixed amount every quarter. No adjustment when the harvest is bad, or the manor needs a new roof, or Charlie’s school bills are due…”

Roxy seizes her opportunity, “And how does my cousin fare at Cambridge?”

“Debt,” Chester says moodily. “Debt, debt, debt. It’s like he doesn’t appreciate the opportunity he has to get ahead in the world. Spends as fast as he gets.”

Roxy tsks. “And you’ve just had to send him more, you say.”

“Aye.” Chester is getting redder. “Ungrateful, no-good – ”

“No wonder you sent your secretary in person,” Roxy says. “I doubt Unwin will be able to rein Charlie’s spending in, however.”

Chester sputters. “Rein him in? Now see here, girl, I don’t send a junior secretary to rein _my_ pup in.”

“Oh,” Roxy says, infusing her tone with a dawning appreciation. “Now I see. You’ve sent Unwin to scout the lay of the land, haven’t you? Find out what Charlie’s debts really are and what he might be mixed up in. Why, Uncle, that’s proper clever.” She leans forward, the picture of eager interest. “What does Unwin write? Has he learned anything?”

Chester freezes. It’s only for a second; so brief Roxy would have missed it had she not been looking for it. But she had been looking, and she sees it, the way his hands still and his eyes dart to her face.

Then he roars into full bluster. “You low-minded, meddling little – ”

Roxy sits back and lets the storm blow past her. She’s gotten what she’d come for.

It seems Michelle’s suspicions aren’t so missish after all.


	3. The Loyal Beta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Harry Hart, leader of The Kingsman and a noble Alpha, has struck a deal with Chester King. He'd met King's very pretty secretary and has decided that the young Omega would be his perfect mate. But he has to play by the rules that King has set, otherwise all will be lost.

Merlin takes the letter from the courier and gives the lad a shilling for his efforts. The seal on the back of the missive is an intertwined "C" and "K" – and he grimaces in annoyance. Merlin has a feeling he knows what this is. He breaks it open and reads the single sentence.

_The payment will be in transit on the thirteen of October._

That is today's date.

Merlin's not quite sure how he feels about this transaction. His lord isn't one to be quite so … quixotic … about things. Harry has always insisted – at least until now – that the payment of a debt should be made in coin, not flesh. And Merlin's not sure if Chester King isn't getting the better end of the deal - removing a young Omega from his household when there's a lord in waiting for her majority.

"Is everything all right?" Harry standing at the top of the staircase, looking like a very dangerous godling in perfect black superfine.

When Harry comes downstairs and they head into Harry's study, Merlin hands him the letter. "King's come through."

Harry doesn't quite smile, but Merlin can see the spark of satisfaction in his Alpha's eye. "You leave tonight?"

"Yes, _Arlodh_."

That gets a snort of laughter from Harry. "More than thirty years we've known each other and you still speak Cornish as if it were Scots Gaelic."

"Perhaps because I happen to be a Scotsman?" Merlin doesn't add that he hasn't set foot on his native soil in all of those thirty some-odd years. The pain of exile will never go away.

"You'll leave tonight?"

Merlin nods. "I'll catch the coach just after it leaves Bath, but you still haven't told me where you want me to take the lad."

"Where do you recommend?"

"Probably safest to lock him away in Tintagel. But that could be a problem, too. Too far away for you to reach if things take their natural progression before you arrive. I can bring him here." Merlin's fairly certain that Harry will reject that idea out of hand.

And he does. "No – absolutely not. The Black Hart is not a fit residence – even temporarily – for my future _Arlodhes_." Of course, Harry's pronunciation is perfect.

"Surely you won't install him in the house in Mayfair?"

"No, not yet. It's too public. I do too much entertaining there and it wouldn't do for the lad to be seen before everything is ready."

"Do you really care about the niceties? You're kidnapping your future mate."

Harry shrugs, but he does look a bit nonplussed. "It's family tradition. My grandsire took my sire's carrier as mate, took him right out of the church he was about to be wedded in."

"Your grandsire was a fucking pirate."

"And I'm not?" Harry taps the black silk patch that covers his left eye socket.

Merlin stifles a sigh. "What about the house in Richmond?" For a few seasons, Harry had kept a handsome young Omega there; until the boy had gotten whiney and started hinting that he wanted to be Lady Hart. Last summer, he'd faked fertility, hoping that Harry would "do the right thing". But Harry hadn't been the least interested and had walked away without a look back. Merlin, as Harry's right hand in all things personal and professional, had to deal with the cleanup. Of course the Omega hadn't quickened; he'd stank of the second rate contraceptives he'd used.

"That's not a terrible idea. Is the place livable?"

"How dare ye suggest otherwise." Merlin pretends to be insulted. As Harry's right hand, it's his responsibility to ensure that all of his properties – not just the ones belonging to the Kingsman – are kept in perfect order. 

"Now that I think of it, the house in Richmond will be perfect."

"There are easier ways to go about this, Harry. He's Lee's boy. You could just approach him and make your intentions known."

Harry shakes his head. "Not that I disagree that it would be a better thing than kidnapping, but Chester's got his claws into the lad and his family. If I were to show the least bit of legitimate interest, you don't think he won't throw Eggsy to his son for ruination, or worse? That he won't destroy Eggsy himself. If all Chester thinks is that I want the boy for base pleasure, then he'll be safe."

Merlin has to agree. They've been forced to deal with Chester King for too long not to know how the man worked. It's only the good fortune that Harry holds gambling markers from Charlie that puts them in this position. 

"I'll get going, then."

Harry nods and gives him a stern look. "You don't forget to take care of yourself. I can't lose you."

Merlin puts a hand on Harry's strong shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere, my lord. I'm with you until we both fall in battle."

"And our days of battle and death are done, are they not?" Harry clasps his arm, a gesture of brotherhood.

"One hopes. We are, though, in a dangerous business." Merlin lets go and when Harry does the same, he feels the loss. It's always been that way, even though Merlin is a Beta and lacks the biology that would create a bond between him and Harry. But Harry is his sworn lord, as archaic as that might be in such a modern age.

Merlin heads out to the stable. A horse has been saddled and is ready for the trip, eager even. Since this is going to be a hard journey without much chance for rest, arrangements have been made for several replacement horses en route. Not the usual posting house nags, but proper beasts kept at the chain of local liveries from London to Cornwall that Harry owns. Like everything that Lord Harry Hart touches, it puts money in his pocket, but the investment had been more for the convenience of the Kingsman than to generate income. 

Before meeting up with Bedivere and Tristan on the Great Western Road, Merlin stops at the house in Richmond. It's a lovely and not so little cottage, but a discreet enough place to tuck away a mistress. The housekeeper greets him with a wary smile.

Before Merlin can say anything, the woman asks, "Is the lord selling the place and turning me out?"

"Not at all. I'm here to tell you that you will have a new resident in a week – ten days at the most. A young Omega who must be treated with all care and concern due to one of high rank and status." Merlin puts stern emphasis on those last words. "He is not like the last resident of this place, and he will – in time – take up a permanent place in his Lordship's principle household. I expect your complete discretion, Mistress Crane."

The woman stares at him, her eyes huge in her pale, pasty face. "Yes, Mr. Merlin."

"Your guest will need a proper maid. Can you recommend one?"

"My niece – she worked her afore, for the other lad. She's looking for a new position."

Merlin's not sure that bringing in someone who'd once worked for the little trollop is the best idea, but he doesn’t have the time to go to a proper domestic agency. "Rehire her on, but on a provisional basis. Her loyalty must be absolute and neither of you shall mention anything about the former occupant of this house. Is that understood?"

Mistress Crane nods. "I'll get everything ready for a young Omega of quality, sir. You'll have no complaints."

"Good." Merlin walks around the receiving room, unhappy with the tawdry nature of the décor. "Please simplify things in the house. Everything should be clean and bright. None of these gimcracks and gee-gaws, please. Can you read and write?"

That sets Mistress Crane's back up. "Of course. I know my letters and numbers and no one cheats me because I'm ignorant."

"Good. Then make a list of everything that's needed to refurbish this place, especially new linens. Send it over to Lord Hart at his Mayfair address." Merlin sighs to himself. Why didn't he press Harry about this a week ago, when Harry told him what he was doing? 

Mistress Crane promises to do so, and promises her discretion in all things. With that, Merlin takes his leave. It's early evening and this far from London, there isn't too much traffic. Just as the moon rises, he stops at the Hounslow posting inn to meet with Bedivere and Tristan. 

"Is Harry really doing this?" Tristan is mostly bemused, but there is a note of worry there.

"Aye. He's got his mind set on this. You have concerns?"

Tristan shakes her head, but Bedivere asks, "We're going after Lee's boy? What about his carrier? Are we rescuing her, too?"

Merlin had forgotten that Bedivere had a sweet spot for Michelle, and might have paid court to her had he not been committed to the war. "Not yet – she's got a good place at Lancelot and Percival's estate. Dagonet watches out for her."

Bedivere doesn't look satisfied.

"We don't have a choice. Our mission is to take young Eggsy while he's in transit to London, and keep him safe. Only once that is accomplished, Galahad may give you leave to pursue a courtship with Mistress Unwin. "

Merlin sighs at Bedivere's still obstreperous expression. "Trust in Dagonet. He'll not let harm come to her."

Bedivere just nods and the three of them mount up. Compared to their time as riding officers in Spain, this journey is barely more than a light canter, except that they are traveling at night, on a matter of some urgency, and the price for failure will be too high.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The forty or so miles between St. Austell and Plymouth usually takes about seven hours by the Mail coach, but that's because it's pulled by a team of six or eight horses. The smaller Morton coach has only two horses, and although much lighter, it travels about two-thirds that speed. Which means it's well past midnight when they pull into a coaching in for a change of horses and a chance for Eggsy to stretch his legs.

The driver calls out to him, "Be careful, lad. Don't wander off. We'll be getting back on the road in a few."

Eggsy nods and heads towards the privy behind the stable. The driver may want to get going, but he's going nowhere without Eggsy. He washes his hands at the pump, dries them on his shirt, then heads back to the front of the inn. There's someone waiting with a basket of food, a young lad who looks like he's just been awakened from a sound sleep. 

"Sorry to keep ye up at this hour." Eggsy gives the boy a few pence for the service. 

"Me job." The boy pockets the coin. "Fanks, though."

"You allowed to take letters?" Eggsy's written a brief note to his mum.

"Aye. You got one for me?" 

Eggsy gives him the single sheet and a tuppence for the postage. "Put this for the westbound post."

"Sure enough, guv."

The letter will probably reach his mum in two days or so. There's nothing earth shattering in it, but it wouldn't feel right to leave Plymouth without letting his mum know he's okay. Eggsy climbs back into the coach and as they pull away from the inn, he feels sleep start to claim him, but he resists. He is now officially farther from home than he's ever been before. It feels monumental, as if some great change in his life's about to happen.

If this is anything like one of those lovely novels that Lord Roxy lends him, he'd be on his way to some great destiny and perhaps a little peril. He'd be set upon by a noble highwayman who steals a kiss and nothing more, or perhaps his carriage breaks down and he's rescued by some passing noble, an Alpha of vast wealth and fine manners, who sees Eggsy as the Omega of his dreams and offers an honorable bonding on the spot. Eggsy would be whisked away, into a life of privilege and pleasure, his heats would be fertile because his mate, his Alpha, would be caring and tender as he knotted him.

Eggsy squirms a bit at that thought. He really is too close to his own heat to be thinking of such things. 

It's dark and the carriage is truly comfortable. Eggsy, as the only passenger, has plenty of space to stretch out – the driver had shown him how to pull out a platform under the seat to make a bed. There's also a blanket and a pillow for his comfort and Eggsy wraps himself in the soft wool and lets the gentle swaying motion of the well-sprung coach lull him to sleep.

Not that he sleeps deeply – at several points during the night, he's aware that they've stopped and changed horses and given the driver a chance to rest, but it isn't until after dawn and a longer stop at a noisy coaching yard that Eggsy fully wakes.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he opens the carriage door. Walter the guards, is leaning on the carriage, a mug of something hot is giving off wisps of steam in the chilly morning air. 

"We'll rest here fer a bit. Probably a couple of hours. The horses are winded and there isn't a fresh pair for the exchange. Have to wait for the beasts to rest before we can go on."

Eggsy's not unhappy about that. The delay will give him a chance to stretch his legs, have a bite to eat without worrying about the food going flying. As an Omega, there's no way he'll be able to eat in the inn's common room and he certainly doesn't have the funds for a meal in a private dining room.

"Would you mind escorting me to the privy?" With so many people around – Alphas and Betas, it would not be a good idea for him to go without a guard. Now that he thinks of it, he probably shouldn't have done that last night.

The guard sighs and makes a face, but he leads Eggsy to the privy and watches over him as Eggsy washes up. It's a good thing, because there are a few rough looking Alphas that are giving him the eye, and Miles doesn't hesitate to brandish his shotgun.

They head back to the coach and Eggsy finds a basket with food and a flask of hot cider to break his fast. He offers Miles one of the soft muffins, still warm from the oven, and the man takes it with gratitude. "Yer a good lad. Yer mam raised ye right."

"Thanks." Eggsy ducks his head to hide a blush.

The cider – a little sweet and sharp with spices – is delicious and makes Eggsy just a touch woozy. He devours another muffin and licks at the butter that drips down his fingers.

Eggsy looks around at the unfamiliar landscape, "Where are we?"

"Just past Exeter and the next bit of travel's going to be hard going. We're going to be crossing the Devonshire moors. Desolate country."

Eggsy, a Cornish boy through and through, is familiar with the moors. Even though he's never been there, he knows about Bodmin and Dartmoor and how people can get lost forever in the great undulating bogs and islands. As a boy, he'd often wished that his stepda, Dean, would get lost in the moors and leave him and his mum alone. 

"And then there's the highwaymen that can take ye." Miles polishes the butt of his pistol, as if he's relishing a chance to use it.

"You ever get stopped by one?"

"Yeah, back about five or six summers ago, when I was riding guard on a Mail coach. Not that those dogs were real highwaymen. A bunch of ejiits." Miles spits on the ground in emphasis. "Just a pack o' ruffians out to grab wot they could. And they got nothing except their necks stretched on a Tyburn tree."

Eggsy wonders if his late and unlamented stepfather had been part of that pack. Dean and his dogs - a sorrier collection of dickless betas couldn't be found between Plymouth and Penzance - had been taken up by the Guard for trying to rob the Mail about six years ago. They were hung for a man one rainy Wednesday after the Lord Lieutenant of all of Cornwall declared them guilty of crimes against the Crown. They hung, rotting and putrid and unclaimed, as all such criminals did, for a week. After they were cut down, their bodies were dropped into a mass grave at the crossroads, an unhallowed resting place for terrible, soulless men.

Even though the Crown had taken everything in the small cottage where Eggsy had grown up in, everything down to the last broken cup and cracked iron skillet, his life had improved. His mum had told him that they were going to call in a favor from his da's old commanding officer – the one who'd gotten him killed. They'd used the few coins his mum had hidden from Dean, and then from the Crown, and bought passage on the Mail coach and headed west, away from Plymouth. Eggsy thought they might be going to the end of the world, but no – just a day's ride to St. Austell and to Morton Crescent.

When they'd found out that the old lord – not so old, but old enough – had been killed in the war, too, his mum thought all was lost. But the steward – old Dagonet himself – said that he knew Eggsy's da; that he had served with him in Spain, and that the _Arlodh_ had even made provisions for Eggsy and his mam if they ever came to Morton Crescent. 

Lord Morton's will had been generous – providing a private cottage for the Unwins, instead of the usual servants' quarters, and there had even been a small bequest – a hundred pounds for Eggsy's dowry. The _Arlodh_ had been a man who followed the old ways and believed at all Omegas were gifts from the god, and should be cherished as such – regardless of their social status. The first night in their cottage at Morton Crescent, his mum had wept bitter tears, apologizing endlessly to Eggsy for not taking up Lord Morton's offer of sanctuary when he'd made it, after Eggsy's da had been killed. She'd apologized again for taking a Beta – and such an unworthy Beta – as a husband, but Eggsy had just shushed her, telling her that they could just forget Dean.

_"I can't, love. You won't be able to, either." Michelle was sobbing now._

_"What do you mean, mum?" Eggsy stroked Michelle's hair, trying to comfort her._

_"Can't forget Dean, not with the baby." Michelle looks over at Daisy, three years old and sleeping as if she doesn't have a care in the world. And she doesn't. Not anymore. The King has killed the monster, after all._

_Eggsy's quick to reassure his mum that that's not possible. "You know that's impossible, mum. A pup doesn't carry the sins of its sire, or its carrier. It's a newborn soul, fresh an' bright an' clean. I love Daisy because she's my sib, because she's made of joy and laughter and sunlight, and because I love you."_

Eggsy's little sib – a girl Alpha – flourishes at Morton Crescent, her thin cheeks filled out from a good and steady diet. Her smiles and laughter are the delight of the housekeeping staff, who fight to watch her when Michelle is working.

Eggsy's own life had undergone a great change, too. 

It hadn't just been leaving Plymouth and the legacy of Dean and his dogs. That would have been enough for him – to have fresh air to breath, to have a future that wouldn't be spent getting heat-raped. He could see the way Dean looked at him, the way he licked his lips and cupped his groin. He'd been waiting for Eggsy to go into heat to claim him – even though no Beta could legally mate-claim an Omega. He'd just wanted to stuff his filthy prick into Eggsy' body. At least Dean had been possessive, warning his dogs that he'd castrate them if they'd so much as laid a hand on Eggsy – at least not until Dean had had his fill of Eggsy's ass.

It's having a real home that makes all the difference in Eggsy's life.

Eggsy had fallen in love with Morton Crescent. From the moment he'd realized that he has a place here and that he's safe, Eggsy had finally felt like he could breathe. Dagonet had first assigned him to the stables, and Eggsy had taken well to working outside, in fresh air untainted by the stench of a harbor at low tide. He'd loved the horses, too, and didn't mind mucking out the soiled hay. That was a different kind of stink – there was something alive about it. The harbor smelled of corruption; the horses smelled of life. 

Thomas, the stable master, had told him a bit about the people who lived up at the manor. Like Dagonet, the steward, Thomas had used the old words when he'd spoken of _Arlodh_ Percival and his _Arlodhes_ , James. They had been fine and good men, an Alpha and an Omega worthy of respect. It was a terrible shame that they'd died so young – _Arlodhes_ James had died during childbirth and the pup had died too, born still and unbreathing. _Arlodh_ Percival had been killed in battle not three months before. Thomas had surmised, over his third pint of ale, that perhaps the _Arlodhes_ had lost his will to live, even though he had his beloved cub, Roxanne, to raise.

Eggsy had thought that might just be the saddest thing he'd ever heard, except that he'd seen his mum fall into such a state after getting word that his da had been killed. 

He might have spent his whole life with the horses, going from stable boy to groomsman, to tack apprentice, maybe even becoming the head of it all – stable master – one day in the far future. But fate, in the form of Lord Roxanne Morton – freshly graduated from some fancy Alpha girl's boarding school - had intervened and changed his life again.

While the staff – upper and lower – consider Lord Chester King to be something of an ass, and that his offspring, the Honorable Charles, is someone to be avoided at all costs, they endure, because Chester is only Lord Roxanne's trustee. Apparently he's related to the Mortons on his carrier's side.

But everyone adores Lord Roxanne and they are looking forward to the day when she becomes their _Arlodh_. Eggsy had been working at the stables for two months, finding a good rhythm to the days, when he's asked to saddle up the sweet bay gelding that's always such a pleasure to exercise. He takes the beast out into the stable forecourt and hands the reins over to one of the grooms, but he doesn't head back into the stables – he wants to see who's riding his precious beast. 

Andrew sees him lingering, but instead of giving a reprimand, he takes him over to greet the rider. "Ye should get to know your future _Arlodh_ , lad."

She'd taken one look at him and asked, "Omega?"

He'd nodded, unsure of where this conversation was going.

"Why are you working in the stables?"

Eggsy had looked at Thomas, who was frowning. "This is where Mr. Dagonet placed me, m'lord."

Lord Roxy shook her head. "You should be up at the house, not mucking out stables. No disrespect, Mr. Thomas."

"None, taken, m'lord."

She'd asked him if he was lettered, if he could write. "I have a fair hand, m'lord. Me mum taught me well."

"I'll need a secretary soon enough. You'll work for me."

Unfortunately, Lord Chester had countermanded her request and decided to employ Eggsy as a junior secretary. To handle the business that Lord Chester's senior secretary is too busy to do, taking on the menial tasks in Plymouth, carrying important letters to London. 

"Looks like the horses are rested enough." Walter interrupts Eggsy's ruminations. "Time to get back on the road."

The day is monotonous, the scenery as desolate and uninteresting as the moorlands can be, and because the posting inns along this stretch of road are few and far between, they have to travel slowly, to spare the horses. Eggsy drafts a quick letter to his mum – just a few lines to tell her he's still safely en route to Cambridge. He tries to read, but the road turns rough and the bouncing makes it impossible to focus on the print; after just a few minutes, Eggsy closes the book and prays that the nausea he's feeling will pass soon. Bored and restless, he bangs on the wall underneath the driver's seat. Miles the guard opens the small window.

"What's the matter, lad?"

"Any chance I could ride up top for a while?"

"Nay, lad. You're scent's going to carry and God knows what vermin hides in the moors. Best ye stay in the coach."

Miles shuts the panel abruptly and Eggsy takes a whiff of himself and frowns. He not only smells ripe – like it's been too many weeks since a bath – but there's an under note of heat-scent. His mum says it's nice, like spring flowers, but Eggsy hasn't smelled any flowers that reek like he does when he's arcing into heat.

With nothing left to do, Eggsy pulls out the platform that connects the seats and lets the swaying motion of the carriage rock him into sleep.

When the coach stops to change the horses, both Miles and Wilson, the driver, escort him to the privy and back. He takes his meals inside the coach and starts to feel like a prisoner – not just of Lord Chester's whims, but of his own body.

A day and another day pass. There's a delay at Glastonbury to wait for fresh horses and another on the outskirts of Bath, and Eggsy begins to regret ever leaving his life as a stable boy.

On the third night day after Exeter, the weather changes. Late in the afternoon, the autumn sunshine had given way to rolling clouds and by nightfall, they were traveling through a cold, soaking rain. Eggsy felt sorry for the driver and the guard, they must be exhausted from four days of travel without much rest. 

But not sorry enough to suggest that they join him inside. Not when he feels the itchiness of pre-heat. It's not really arousal or need, it's like his skin's too tight and he's tired but restless. 

There's really nothing for Eggsy to do but go back to sleep. He pulls up the blanket and tucks his hand under his cheek and thinks about only the good things in his life. His mum, baby Daisy, Lord Roxy. And as he dozes off, he remembers one of Lord Chester's visitors. A tall and beautiful Alpha with a kind smile and a deep voice and an eye-patch to make him seem a bit like a pirate.

Lord Hart. 

Why he should be categorizing Lord Hart with the good things in his life, Eggsy doesn't have the least clue. Except that Lord Hart had looked at him, little Eggsy Unwin, and had smiled and spoken to him with great courtesy, much like the Alpha lords would speak to their Omegas in those lovely novels.

Eggsy had, more than once, felt himself blushing under Lord Hart's regard, as if the Alpha had been courting him, not asking him to read back salient points of a business contract he'd been negotiating with Lord Chester.

He'd had to look away, fiddling with his shirt cuffs to cover his nerves. Eggsy had been too aware that they had been worn and ink-stained, so unlike Lord Hart's pristine ones, blindingly white against the rich blue of his coat. 

The rain patters against the coach and Eggsy lets his thoughts drift. There's no harm in thinking warmly about Lord Hart. It's not as if he'll ever cross paths with the Alpha again.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	4. The Debt

The next day Roxy waylays the footman herself. “Has the post come, Michael?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the footman says. Well-trained, standing in the public foyer, the servant uses the conventional terms of respect. “Only the usual mail for your Uncle, my Lord.”

“Surely my cousin has written me,” Roxy says, affecting surprise. “He promised most faithfully.”

Michael shakes his head. “No letters from Lord Charles this fortnight gone, my Lord,” he says. He waits the respectful moment, then offers a bow and moves on, letters flat and decorous on a shined silver salver.

Roxy lets him go. She walks in another direction. She’s wondering.

No letters this _fortnight_ , the footman had said.

Then how, Roxy thinks, had Uncle Chester known that Charlie is hard up?

* * *

Chester is lazy as well as greedy. He dines well, drinks and smokes until perhaps midnight, and then goes to bed. He sleeps like a rock and doesn’t rise until the morning is nearly gone.

Roxy rises at dawn. She wraps herself in her dressing-gown in lieu of dressing. She’s more than capable of dressing herself, but she fully intends to be back in bed by the time her valet enters, and to leave no indication that she hasn’t spent the intervening time likewise.

The main stairs are empty. Normally in a manor-house there are always servants about, but the dawn hour is one of the few exceptions – it’s the breakfast-hour below, and nothing short of the house afire or one of Uncle Chester’s tantrums will drag a servant away.

There is one exception. Roxy pauses in the shadow of the landing as young Daisy Unwin darts by, intent on some commission. Officially Daisy is no servant of Morton Crescent, being, at five, two years too young to hold any post. But like most young Alphas she’s little respect for the rules of her elders, focused only on what she _can_ do with little regard for what she _might_. Despite her lower birth she’d been made something of a pet of the cook when she’d first arrived in her carrier’s arms – the cook having been at Morton Crescent since Roxy had been a cub, and having neither grandpups of his own nor any of Percival’s to dote on, had seized on Daisy’s arrival as a long-awaited opportunity – and from spending her days in the kitchen, it had been only a short step for Daisy to start taking up odd jobs of all kinds around the estate. Chester looks on it tolerantly, as being one more servant gained at no cost to him in coin. And Roxy has been known to take Daisy riding with her down the village sometimes, pointing out features of the estate along the way, play-acting the role of older sibling she’d never otherwise achieved.

Daisy Unwin vanishes down a corridor. A moment later, the sound of the door to the servants’ quarters closing reaches Roxy’s ears, and Roxy recalls her mind from idle thoughts to focus on the task at hand. The way now clear, she walks calmly and unhurriedly to Uncle Chester’s study. She has a mind to write a letter, and she’s quite unable to locate a single sheet of paper or inkwell in the small desk in the library. A tragic tale, but what else can be expected from the nobility? Lackwits, the lot of them.

So lackwitted, in fact, that Roxy mistakes a drawer full of Chester’s correspondence for a drawer full of empty paper, and begins reading every one.

At first she learns nothing, or rather, nothing of any value. She learns more than she wishes to know about the drinking, gambling, and whoring habits of some of Chester’s friends. Roxy spares a moment to be grateful that Chester does not keep copies of his own outgoing letters in his file, lest she learn the same things about her Uncle. She already holds him in contempt, but compelled as she is to tolerate him, a thorough knowledge of his vices would be ill-advised.

Perhaps halfway down the stack, Roxy’s luck turns for the better. One of Chester’s friends in London, a Lord Mercer, writes an urgent missive – dated some six months ago – on the subject of Charlie’s gambling debts. At first blush this is no unusual occurrence, but as Roxy reads on through several following letters, an unusual picture takes shape.

Charlie had gone to London at some point – with or without Chester’s approval, Roxy can’t tell, though from some of the things Lord Mercer says, Roxy guesses not. But a trip to the capitol over a school holiday would not be a grievous sin, on the scale of Charlie’s doings. The sin seems to have been Charlie’s choice of vices whilst there: not whores, nor expensive clothes, nor fine wines. Gambling. And not even the gentlemanly sort of betting done on horses or dogs or wagers through one’s club. No. Charlie had found himself in what Lord Mercer styles _the most wretched hive of scum and villainy in all of the East End._ And there Charlie had lost –

Roxy has to stop. Breathe. Look at the amount again and try not to scream. _Chester screws the rents up until the tenants scream, swindles every merchant who sends him a bill, drinks the cellar dry every season – and Charlie goes to London on a lark and – and –_

She turns over the next letter, numb with expectation of the blow. Yes, here are negotiations. Or at least the beginning of them. They cut off, frustratingly: Lord Mercer writes that he understands that Chester no longer wishes to use him as a go-between, that of course some matters must be handled oneself, but Mercer wishes King to know that he remains his most loyal, most dutiful –

Roxy flings the letters away in disgust, before practicality makes her gather them up again neatly and lock them back in the drawers of her Uncle’s desk. Most dutiful servant, bah. Mercer owes Chester something, or wants something from him. Perhaps a commission on the eventual sale.

The object being bartered over in the letters is not specified. But Roxy knows what it might be. For a debt of that magnitude, only land will do. Chester is planning to sell part of the estate.

Part of _her_ estate. Part of James’ and Percival’s estate. Part of the estate of the Mortons stretching back to the rule of Richard the Lionheart. And now, to clear the debts of Roxy’s wastrel cousin, her Uncle proposes to sunder what should _never_ be divided.

No part of it is optional: the loss of any is a failure of the _Arlodh’s_ responsibilities. The sale of their timber or farmlands would mean a permanent reduction in the estate’s revenues, and therefore slow, creeping impoverishment – first for younger Alphas who find themselves portionless, then for Omegas as their dowries shrink, then finally for the last _Arlodh_ s struggling and failing to keep the estate afloat. The sale of the village would deprive them of workers, of cheap goods, of rents: the same eventual consequences, though reached by a different road. The rivers and the forests supply most of their table; without them the estate will have to pay, and pay dearly, for meat and game and fish.

Roxy tears through the rest of the correspondence, looking for anything else, anything new, but finds nothing. There is nothing else to find. The rest are bills, stern letters to various deputies, personal letters that speak of Chester’s vices but leave Charlie’s silent. Even the letters from Earl Hesketh are useless: Charlie’s aunt writes that she will pay no more of his debts, and is seriously reconsidering having made Charlie her heir. What answer Chester has made, Roxy knows not, but the picture of Chester’s desperation is all too plain regardless. He’s never been a strong man or a good trustee; it would take less than this to make him decide to sell what should never have been in his power to offer.

In the hall, footsteps pass. Roxy looks up, looks to the clock. It’s later than she’d thought. The servants will be finishing breakfast and coming upstairs, moving through the house again, beginning the day’s attendance upon their masters.

She has to leave.

Quickly she scans the room. Tidies the few objects out of place, straightens Chester’s chair again. An ear pressed to the door tells her nothing, so Roxy seizes her chance, exiting the room and darting swift-footed up the stairs back to her bedchamber.

She’s barely in time. No sooner has she shed her gown and settled herself against the headboard then a small knock on the door signals the arrival of her valet.

“Come in,” Roxy calls. Now she needs every ounce of self-control she’s ever developed. Her uncle intends to sell part of the estate, her world is on the cusp of being destroyed, and she must give no sign of it. She must appear interested in her valet’s mindless chatter, and what cravat to wear, and which waistcoat. And then she must go down to breakfast, and face her Uncle, though in all probability he will give his attention to the _Times_ and not to her, small blessings.

But she must reveal nothing. Until she knows what to do, she must reveal nothing.

“The green one,” Roxy decides, in reference to her waistcoat, and manages to smile as she does it up.

* * *

Chester does indeed spend all of breakfast staring at the newspaper. Roxy eats eggs and toast, all she can manage with her stomach roiling. The kippers, normally her favorite, remain untouched. If Chester were to notice, Roxy is prepared to say she thinks the grease in which they’ve been cooked has gone off. He doesn’t. It’s just as well. Chester has been known to harangue the kitchen staff over such things.

After breakfast Chester retires to his study. Usually Roxy goes for a ride, the better to escape the stifling confines of the manor-house. And to do what limited best she can managing the estate under Chester’s nose. It’s been a week since she’s been down to the village; who knows what might need doing? The tenants know better than to ask Lord King for anything, but they’ll tell Roxy when their stove starts smoking or their roof starts leaking, trusting that she can help make it right.

Usually this heartens her. Today the thought of their trust is a bitter gall, against the reality of how little power Roxy actually has. Roxy turns away from the stables and points her steps towards the library. There are old records there, from her parents’ time and before, old ledgers. Things that, properly read, tell stories of the estate. Roxy had studied them as a pup at her carrier’s knee. Chester never touches them, but he hasn’t disposed of them either. Roxy has always supposed he’d seen them as a valuable resource for Charlie, one day. Now she wonders. Maybe Chester has always meant to sell the estate as soon as he could.

Her right hand, in her pocket, worries over the small earring there. An emerald, it is. Roxy’s birth-stone. The Morton arms are green and black. For generations, since the founding of the estate, the Lords Morton have given their Ladies gemstones in those colors: emeralds for Alpha or Beta male offspring, onyxes for Omega or Beta females. James had worn Roxy’s emerald as an earring set in gold. The onyx Percival had bought at the same time had been laid by for another day, another pup. One that had never come.

Birth-gems, like mating-jewelry, belong to the lady of a couple, whether Omega or Beta female. They do not form part of any estate. And so when James had died, Roxy’s birth-stone had gone to her, along with the set of jewelry Percival had given James during the successive stages of their courtship: a bracelet when James had allowed Percival to court him, a necklace when they had promised to each other, and a ring upon their mating. That set lies tucked away in a small box in Roxy’s quarters. The birth-stone she likes to carry with her, a way of feeling close to her parents. Now she draws it out and looks at it, and for the first time it really comes home to her: this emerald may be the only inheritance she ever receives.

“Milord?”

Roxy startles. “Yes?” she says, turning.

Michelle Unwin is emerging from the door to the servants’ quarters. Her dress is impeccable, ready for the day; apron starched and neat, cap on her head, shoes shined. The effect is entirely spoilt by the way her fingers twist and twist again, putting creases in the fine fabric. “Milord,” she says again. Her eyes dart nervously around, looking for other servants who might carry tales, or worse, Chester himself. Then they come to rest on Roxy’s hands, where, Roxy belatedly realizes, she’s still holding her birth-stone.

Hastily Roxy tucks it away. Michelle turns her head to study the wall sconces with great attention, setting her own earrings to swinging. She wears two, both in the more conventional colors – blue for carriers and red for sires – for neither Lee Unwin nor Dean Baker had had coats of arms of their own. Eggsy’s birth-stone is an aquamarine. Not quite the richness of a sapphire, but a substantial semiprecious gem, speaking to respectability and financial comfort. It’s set in platinum, as well, rather than the cheaper silver, for an Omega. A trifle too fine for Michelle’s servants’ garb; a sign that she’d once held a higher position in society. And it makes Daisy’s birth-stone look like the cheap piece of colored red glass it is, the brass for an Alpha already tarnished. Dean had not even bought the relatively affordable garnet, much less set the stone in gold the way he ought to have. But Michelle had preserved them both, even through the poverty of life with Dean Baker and the utter ruination of his eventual conviction, and wears them still, valuing her children as she ought.

The moment stretches on. Roxy having neither scolded nor left, Michelle seems to pluck up her courage, taking a few steps towards Roxy. “Have you spoken to your Uncle, milord? Has – has Lord Charles written?”

Roxy swallows. Shame stains her cheeks. So dismayed to learn about Chester’s plans is she that she had entirely forgotten about Eggsy Unwin, missing and in need of assistance. So focused on her own losses that she has lost sight of the loss of others. _Perhaps my sire was right. Perhaps I would be no good Lord after all._

“My cousin has not written,” Roxy says. She makes her voice as gentle as she can. Michelle would take any sharpness as a reflection on her boldness in having asked, and she doesn’t deserve that. Not when it has cost her so much to approach Roxy in the first place.

How much to tell? Roxy ought to have thought of this before, ought to have considered… no. No time for recriminations. Roxy temporizes. “Indeed he has not written for a fortnight gone. I suspect his most recent letter has gone astray, and probably Miss Unwin’s with it. I believe my Uncle expects to hear from Charlie every day now.”

Michelle’s countenance does not become noticeably less worried, but her fingers, at least, still their frantic working. “Truly, my Lord?”

“Truly,” Roxy assures her, reminding herself that every word she has spoken is the literal truth, and never mind what she’s left out. Her own mind is spinning, fitting Eggsy’s silence in with what Roxy now knows of Chester’s plans. Chester had feigned that Eggsy had been sent out to settle Charlie’s debts – and Lord Mercer had been told that he no longer need act as an intermediary. Although only junior secretary, Roxy knows that Eggsy is usually the one sent to Portsmouth, to deal with Chester’s man-of-business and bankers. Chester’s senior secretary is an elderly retainer who does not travel well. Eggsy, young and resilient, has made the journey several times. So. The destination of Cambridge a lie, but the reason for the journey true: Eggsy Unwin goes as Chester’s agent to pay Charlie’s debts. And the silence, too, explained. Eggsy will be under strict orders not to reveal the truth of his journey to anyone, lest –

Lest what? What does Chester think Roxy can do, having learned the truth? Roxy cannot see her next move clearly, not at all. But Chester must think there is something Roxy can do. Which means there _is_ something, if only Roxy can discover it.

Michelle is smiling now, wide and relieved. She bobs her ill-fitting curtsey. “Thank you, my Lord, thank you so much – so good and kind – such condescension – ”

Roxy waves this off, embarrassed to think how little she deserves this effusive gratitude. “As soon as the letter arrives I shall acquaint you with the fact. And after all, next week’s letter is unlikely to go likewise astray.”

Michelle brightens at this, having apparently not considered that. “Of course, my Lord. How wise.”

There’s a creaking as the servants’ door opens again. Roxy should speak to the butler about having that oiled. Dolores, the upper housemaid, appears. She pauses at the tableau in front of her. “My Lord?” she hazards, hastily bobbing a curtsey of her own.

“Well, that will be all, Michelle,” Roxy says hastily. Dolores is Chester’s creature through and through, and it would never do to have her carry tales. “Be sure those library candles are replaced by nightfall. I intend to spend the evening reading.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Michelle says, quickly bobbing another curtsey. “And I’ll speak with that Minnie. She’ll not leave stubs in the holders again, my Lord.”

“Stubs in the library candles?” Dolores exclaims. “I’ll have a word with Minnie myself, my Lord.” She looks outraged. Minnie is the newest and youngest of the housemaids, and prone to fluttering over herself in the mirror instead of attending to her duties – the candles in the library _were_ awfully low last evening, so the scolding she’ll catch is well-earned. Not that Minnie will be here long enough for it to make a difference. Roxy gives it less than a year until she learns her trade well enough to decamp for London in search of better pay.

“Thank you, Dolores,” is all Roxy says aloud. Then it is on her to turn and stride away; neither of the servants will leave her presence first, unless ordered.

She has no heart for riding. The library will be no retreat, not with the flutter it’s about to be in, every housemaid in the manor-house descending on it to replace the candles and go over everything else with a fine-tooth comb, making certain no further fault can be found. But there’s still one place Roxy can go to find sanctuary, and she turns her steps there directly.

* * *

The gallery has been shut up for many years. Chester claims it’s to save money. Roxy suspects he doesn’t like the look of ancestors not his own. The portraits marching back along the walls, back along the years, are an ever-present reminder: this estate is not Chester’s. Is meant for someone else.

Roxy sneaks in, of course. Old Dagonet knows. And at least one of the housemaids, for the portraits are always dusted.

It occurs to her to wonder if that housemaid is Michelle Unwin.

She doesn’t go to look at the pictures of the founders of her line, so many generations back the captions still reads _Arlodh_ and _Arlodhes_. No one uses the old Cornish terms now, except a few of the old servants. Old Dagonet says her sire used to call her carrier by the old name, but if that’s true, Percival had never done it where Roxy could hear him.

There had been so much of her parents’ lives that had gone on where Roxy couldn’t see.

She stops before the painting of them. They’d sat for it not long after their mating. Painters often add a gentle swell to an Omegan belly, the better to suggest that highest of all blessings, fertility. In this case the painter had not had to use their imagination. James had been pupped when he’d sat for the picture. And so, in a way, Roxy is in the picture, too.

“What would you do?” Roxy asks the silent painting. “You taught me how to run the estate. How to be a good lord. How to ride, how to manage a household. But you never taught me how to do this.” She tries to hold back the last words, but they come out anyway. ‘”You never had time.”

Roxy had been their honeymoon pup, the first fruit of their mating. And the last. Percival had left not long after Roxy’s birth, back to his military service. Roxy remembers him only dimly in the first years of her life. Home for a furlough, for a fortnight, and then gone again. Sometimes he’d spent time with Roxy on those leaves. Taken her horseback riding. Taken her to the village. Played with her on the floor before the fire in the evenings after dinner. Other times Percival’s leave had synced up with James’ heat, and Roxy had spent the time in the care of her tutors, barely seeing her sire to kiss him good-bye at the end.

If it had resulted in a sibling, Roxy might not have minded so much. But though James had quickened several times, had promised Roxy each time that this one would be the longed-for companion, each time it had come to naught. No, worse than naught. A merely fallow womb would not have left James so distraught.

Roxy is grateful, when she thinks of those memories, that she has no turn for Omegas.

“But maybe I’m letting you down,” she worries. “Maybe I’m letting everyone down, by not finding a mate.”

None of the years of separation and sadness are present in the picture of the new mates that hangs in the gallery at Morton Crescent. Percival is fine in his regimentals, newly promoted, ready to go off and win glory for King and country. James is beautiful and blushing and so elegant he almost seems unreal. He’d been born a cut or three above Percival, Roxy has always known. Her grandsire on James’ side had been a Duke. But the Duke had served in her time as well, and had had no notion of James being too good for another soldier in the King’s service, given that Percival could furnish a title and a comfortable income. They’d met at a military ball, James had told Roxy once. Their courtship had lasted a year.

“You were sixteen,” Roxy says to the picture of James, accusing now. “And _you_ – ” to her sire – “you were barely twenty. You were already Earl. You could mate whomever you liked, or no one at all. So why – ” the picture is starting to blur before her eyes. “Why would you write your will that way? Why would you deny me my inheritance?”

If she’d come into her estate at her majority, none of this would be happening. She would have pensioned Chester off – she couldn’t have let them starve – but she could have sent he and Charlie to a cottage somewhere far away to stretch their pennies as best they could, and if they lost their annuities to Charlie’s taste for cards and dice, it would have been nothing to Roxy, except perhaps that she would have sent them an extra haunch at Christmastide.

But now Chester will destroy everything that should have been Roxy’s. And in the eyes of the law, Roxy has no right to protest.

There’s a squeak in the floorboards. Roxy whirls. If it’s her Uncle, choosing today and now to change all his usual habits and visit the gallery –

She needn’t have worried. It’s only old Dagonet. And he’s probably been here all along, soft-footed and unobtrusive. The floorboard squeak will be to announce his presence, a courtesy to the cub of his late master, not an accident or the effect of a careless tread.

“Now, lad, don’t be a-blaming your parents,” the old servant says with the rough gentleness Roxy receives from no one else. “They did what they thought was best, I know.”

“Chester King is what’s best? For our estate?” She thinks of Michelle Unwin. Of her worry for her Eggsy. Of Eggsy himself, running a dangerous errand, while her Uncle drinks wine and sells Roxy’s birthright to pay his cub’s debts. “For our people?”

“Oh, now,” Dagonet says more quietly. “That’s not for me to say.”

“My sire didn’t care about them,” Roxy says recklessly. “Any more than he cared about me.”

“The _Arlodh_ cared.” Now Dagonet’s tone is sharp. “He didn’t know how to show it to a pup, aye. But he cared.”

“You’re the only one who calls him that,” Roxy says, meaning the old Cornish title. “You’re the only one who cares about – about trying to make him some kind of hero.”

“Nay,” Dagonet says. “You care, too.”

Roxy stiffens. She opens her mouth to refute this. Shuts it again. She can’t.

She cares.

Damn her for a fool, anyway.

“I don’t know why the old _Arlodh_ left the estate the way he did,” Dagonet says, when it becomes clear Roxy isn’t going to argue. “I don’t know why _Arlodhes_ James didn’t thump some sense into him, either. But I know that, will or no will, _you_ are the rightful _Arlodh_ of this estate. And I am your most humble servant. My Lord.”

He waits only a moment to see if Roxy will make any immediate reply. When Roxy doesn’t, he turns and leaves, as quietly as he’d arrived.

Roxy watches him go. Calm steals over her, as soft-footed as the old retainer who had stayed on, this whole time, looking out for Roxy despite Chester’s slow horror.

She sits at the foot of the painting of her parents, and thinks.

Roxy had not been able to learn what part of the estate Chester intends to sell. Lord Mercer had written only in euphemisms, referring to _fair prospects_ and _fine tracts of land_. Nor had Roxy learned the name of the person holding Charlie’s vowels. But that leaves open a chance, a tantalizing, beckoning chance, that they may be held by the gaming hell itself.

Such things are not uncommon. The winner of the game, finding their mark cannot pay directly, and disinclined to take the trouble of chasing down their winnings, sells the debt to the house for a portion of the sum. The winner receives ready money, which may be most needful, or a reduction of their own debt, which may be substantial. The hell itself will be most experienced in extracting the maximum value from even the most penurious young lordship.

And it is Roxy’s only hope. That, and the lengths Chester has gone to to keep this from Roxy. Chester believes there is something Roxy can do to stop him. Might this be it?

If the hell owns Charlie’s vowels, they will listen to her. She can show them the estate’s ledgers, tell them the rents, the debts – she can make them _believe her_ when she tells them that the land will be worthless to them. But Roxy herself is not worthless. She doesn’t yet know what she has to offer besides the value of her labor, but she’ll devise something to offer. She is _not worthless_.

Despite what her parents had believed of her.

She will devise something.

Roxy just needs to get to London. To London – and to the gambling hell known as the Black Hart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Elrhiarhodan and I mixed up the posting schedule and missed the last window two weeks ago, so to make up for the wait, she'll be posting her next chapter on Sunday - look forward to that! And in the meanwhile, if you're enjoying this so far, please let us know :) Thanks!


	5. Trouble On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a rule, Merlin hates kidnapping, but he's put Harry's plan into action, capturing young Gary Unwin without the pup being any wiser. The trick will be keeping the Omega calm and quiet until they reach their destination.

The darkness is anything but dark under a full moon. A highwayman's moon. But Merlin is no highwayman. He's a Kingsman of great, if unspoken, renown. For thirty years, he's served Harry Hart - his King Arthur - first on the battlefield and now in peacetime. And if sometimes he finds the work distasteful, it's a small price to pay for the loyalty and friendship Harry's given him.

Case in point, the very reason why he's waiting at the crossroads on the Great North Road outside of Bath.

A few months ago, Harry had finally honored his promise to Percival Morton and paid a long-overdue visit to Morton Crescent. He hadn't gone there solely to check up on the estate, he did have some business he'd wanted to conduct with Chester King. Over the years, King has been someone that Harry's found useful in furthering some of the seedier aspects of the Kingsman's peacetime operations. He's untrustworthy, of course, but useful.

That visit had uncovered two important things: King is desperately trying to loot the wealth of Morton Crescent for his own family, and Lee Unwin's pup is working as King's private secretary.

Harry's is a little worried about King's financial machinations. While the Morton wealth comes from a variety of sources – many of them are Kingsman-controlled investments – and King has no access to that money, if he even knows it exists, long-term mismanagement could ruin the estate. At the moment, Morton Crescent itself is in reasonably good shape, although it would benefit from some investment in modern farming technology and an overall repair to the tenants' cottages. The situation, from Harry's eyes, would only become dire if Chester King tries to hold onto the trusteeship and prevent Percival's cub from gaining full access to the Morton wealth.

It's Lee's pup that is giving Merlin this headache. Harry had returned to London and declared that Omega Unwin would become the future Lady Hart, Harry's future _Arlodhes_. A proper courtship would be impossible; Chester King would do everything he could to leverage Harry's plans for his own benefit, or ruin them – and the pup – out of spite. Nor can Harry just remove the Omega from his place at Morton Crescent without King making a terrible noise about things, revealing things that Harry doesn't want known. 

Merlin had told Harry several times that this is the problem when ye sup with the Devil, yer spoon is never long enough.

So the chess game begins and Harry sends Merlin to start sniffing around the King and Hesketh families. If there's one thing that Merlin's good at, it's unearthing people's secrets - and the dirtier, the better. Merlin quickly uncovers all of Chester King's weaknesses. While they are legion, there aren't many that Harry can use to pry young Unwin out of Morton Crescent without causing any damage to the estate. Percival wouldn't thank Harry or Kingsman for harming his cub's legacy. 

That is not to say that Chester has no useful weaknesses. In fact, he has one very large, very expensive, and very hard-to-control weakness. His son, Charles.

Charles – or Charlie as he prefers – is what Merlin likens to a high born _bawbag_ , a noble scrotum, a brainless creature useful only for making more trouble. Charlie's a wastrel with an inflated sense of his own importance, likely encouraged by his father and his Aunt, Adamilia King, the Earl Hesketh, who had named Charlie, the oldest Alpha of his generation, as her heir.

Charlie's never lived up to the promise of his birth. He'd been tossed out of two public schools for unspecified problems (although a few well-greased palms provided stories about cheating), and had only been admitted to Cambridge because of his noble prospects. A wastrel born and bred, Charlie's spent his time at university dedicating himself to the gaming tables and the whores that hover around them like flies around shit. 

If Charlie could actually count the pips on his cards, he wouldn't be a weakness that Harry could exploit. But Charlie is a terrible gambler, losing hand after hand in the chase for that elusive winner's high, and that makes him useful. Even more helpful than Charlie's terrible card play are Charlie's massive gambling debts. He owe money to every cent-per-center from Cambridge to London. His father might not know about this, but Charlie's aunt, the Earl Hesketh must have wind of it. She's told her brother that if the boy isn't brought under control, she'll take steps to remove him from the Earldom's succession.

To Merlin's disgust, Charlie doesn't just have a gambling problem. The _bawbag_ seems to have developed a taste for rape. In his investigation, Merlin's had uncovered more that a few accusations of assault by Charlie against several young Omegas, but Charlie had never been made to pay for his crimes, his father and his aunt had seen that the accusers had either been paid or or made to recant.

Charlie King is just the type of Alpha that Merlin loathes. A boy who knows nothing of honor and believes that because he's got a cock with a knob he has the right to take anything he wants. It's a pity that Harry hasn't yet given Merlin leave to teach Charlie a lesson; Merlin has a pair of very sharp knives waiting for just that purpose.

It's been a long time since he's castrated a rapist.

Instead of castrating Charlie King, Merlin follows Harry's orders and plays a long game. He has quietly bought up all of his vowels, and at Harry's command, has provided Charlie with a membership to The Black Hart in London.

The beastly boy doesn't see the gift for what it is - passage on private coach ride to his own damnation. During the break between semesters, Charlie comes to Town and proceeds to lose almost a thousand pounds in a single night. He begs not to be cut off, and Harry – through various functionaries – lets Charlie play deeper and deeper. For every guinea the boy wins, he loses four more, and soon enough, Charlie's in the hole for over five thousand pounds.

As Harry had foreseen, Earl Hesketh refuses to make good on her nephew's vowels and Chester doesn't have access to the funds to pay them off. 

Which gives Harry all the leverage he needs against Chester. He tells Chester that he'll take the young Omega in exchange for the debt that Charlie's run up at The Black Hart.  Harry, cagey bastard that he is, says nothing to King about the _other_ debts he now owns, an amount almost equal to what Charlie had lost in a week at the gambling hell.  He'll use that is King gets ugly and tries to outmaneuver Harry.

The sound of an approaching coach reminds Merlin of the task at hand.  If everything has gone according to plan, Tristan and Bedivere will have paid off the driver and outrider and taken their place. Merlin hopes that the kitling is sleeping and will remain unaware that a switch has been made until they're on the last leg of the journey.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's just past dawn when Eggsy awakens, and he immediately senses that there's something different about the ride. They are traveling much faster than they previously had. The coach is well-sprung, but it's not built for this kind of speed and Eggsy quickly becomes nauseous from the bouncing.

He opens the side window, hoping that the fresh air might help settle his stomach, and he sees a horse and rider cantering next to the coach. But to Eggsy's surprise, the rider keeps apace of the coach. Eggsy's also surprised to see a holstered rifle attached to the saddle. Miles, the guard who'd shared driver duties with the Morton coachman, had carried a well-worn blunderbuss and a friendly smile. 

It's not just the rifle that is making Eggsy nervous. The horseman is dressed in unadorned black, not Morton livery, and his headwear, an old-fashioned cocked hat, is pulled low to hide his face. Eggsy's immediately reminded of the lurid tales of masked highwaymen. But he's not a coward and there's no reason to believe that this man – whoever he is – means him harm.

Eggsy calls out, "Oi there!" 

The rider turns to him and Eggsy's struck by the intensity of the man's gaze.

"Ye doing all right, laddie?" The man is, of all things, Scottish.

"We're going a bit fast, aren't we?" Eggsy shouts over the rattling of the coach and the ringing of horses' hooves against the road cobbles.

"Ye can tell?"

"Yeah. And it's getting kind of bouncy."

"Making ye sick?"

Eggsy nods and when the coach hits a deep rut, his head bangs against the window frame. Before Eggsy sits back down, the rider moves out of view and he thinks he can hear him yell at the driver to slow down a bit, and the coach does, in fact, slow down. 

A few moments later, he's back at the window. "Is that better, kitling?"

Eggsy sticks his head out of the window again. "Yes, thank you."

"We'll be stopping in a bit to change horses, you'll be all right until then?"

Eggsy isn't hungry, but he wouldn't mind watering some of the roadside bushes in the near future. "I can hold on for a bit, but not too long."

"Very good."

Eggsy is still confused by the presence of this outrider. "Who are you?"

The man doesn't answer.

Thinking that maybe he didn't hear him, Eggsy shouts. "I said, who are you?"

"Ye can call me Merlin."

The Scottish accent puzzles Eggsy. "Why are you here? We're more than halfway to London."

There's another noticeable pause. "Lord Chester was worried about ye making it safely to yer destination. He sent word ahead and hired me to guard ye."

Eggsy sits back down and considers this information. It feels _wrong_. If Lord Chester had been worried about highwaymen, he would have had an outrider with the coach when they'd been crossing the Bodmin. Even Eggsy, who's never been further than Penzance, knows that the road between Bath and London is too well-traveled for serious criminal activity.

So he sits and watches the scenery go by and counts the days. He's been in transit for five nights, and from what the coachman had told him, it should be another full day before they reach the outskirts of London, and another day until they arrive in Cambridge.

Eggsy sighs and crosses his fingers. If he's as regular as he's been for the last two years, his heat's going to hit in a week, well before he gets home. Maybe that's why Lord Chester sent the guard – to protect Eggsy from Alphas who'd attack him on first scenting.

Except that Eggsy knows just what kind of Alpha that Chester King is – cruel and uncaring of anyone who isn't of his own class. He'd no more care about his junior secretary's vulnerability during his heat than he'd care about a starving dog begging at the kitchen door in the middle of winter.

So who is this man? Logic tells Eggsy that he should be afraid, instinct - an Omega's instinct - says otherwise. The outrider is a Beta and seems to care for his well-being. 

But Eggsy's now catching the scent of Alphas - a pair of them. The coachman and Miles the guard were Betas.

 _Were_ Betas? The question forms in Eggsy's mind and he can't escape it. Are they dead, did James and the two Alphas up front kill them? He sits back against the plush upholstery and stares at the far side of the carriage, not seeing the fabric covered wood, but the dead bodies of the men who'd been guarding him. 

He's nauseous again - not from the rocking motion of the coach, but from terror.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Merlin doesn't know why he hadn't expected Lee's pup to be such a handsome Omega. Lee, after all, had been a very good-looking young man. His bride, Michelle, had a sweetness of feature that could have been celebrated in any number of Continental paintings featuring nymphs or goddesses or milkmaids.

And of course, Harry is an Alpha with a discerning eye and appreciates beauty in all its forms, especially in young male Omegas. Lee's pup – Gary – is not merely pretty, not with that jawline. He's handsome in a way that Merlin's rarely seen on this side of the English Channel, where the fashion is for willowy soft Omegas with simpering personalities and die-away airs. 

Harry has bedded his fair share of soft and simpering Omegas; the succession of mistresses that have occupied the house in Richmond Forest is testament to that. But Harry's never expressed any interest in well-bred Omegas. It has always amused Merlin to watch the fashionable laddies do their best to attract Harry's attention at Society events. Harry, ever the gentleman, remains politely disinterested, but he gets a look in his eye that reminds Merlin of a hunted beast.

Gary Unwin is nothing like those Omegas; no one would ever look at his strong, sturdy frame and call him willowy. Nor does he seem to know how to simper; a soft and fashionable Omega wouldn't dream of sticking his head out of a traveling coach and having a conversation with an outrider. Merlin had been prepared to tolerate the Omega for Harry's sake, but he finds himself unexpectedly charmed.

Bedivere, who's handling the reins, calls out to Merlin. "The lead horse seems to have developed a bit of a limp. Going to have to pull over. Might want to let the pup know, let him stretch his legs." 

Merlin waits for Bedivere to guide the team over to a lay-by before knocking on the carriage door. "Kitling, we need to stop for a bit, one of the horses has come up lame. If ye'd like to get out and give your legs a stretch, ye can."

There's no answer and Merlin knocks again. "Kitling? Is everything all right?"

He listens carefully and thinks he hears a whimper. 

"Kitling, ye've got me worried, so I'm opening the door."

Merlin's greeted with the sight of the pup backed up in the corner of the carriage, holding a small eating knife. 

"Don't come any closer – I know how to use this." Of course the young Omega threat is empty, he's holding the knife all wrong. "

What's going on? I thought we were friends?"

"What have you done with Miles and John Coachman?" Gary's voice is shaking. "Who are the Alphas sitting up front? Who are _you?_ "

"I told ye, my name is Merlin. I'm here to guard ye. There's nothing to worry about."

"You're a liar. There's no reason for Lord Chester to send a guard now, not on the best traveled road in England. Tell me, who are you really and what you've done with Miles and John Coachman?" 

Merlin sighs. He'd foolishly hoped that the Omega wouldn't have noticed the switch. The Morton servants are Betas, like he is. "Miles and John are just fine, having a pint and a nice rest at the coaching inn outside of Bath."

Gary seems to believe him, and lowers his guard a bit, at least until Merlin tries to get into the coach.

"I said, stay back." The boy makes a stabbing motion with that ridiculous knife.

Overpowering Gary isn't an option, not if he wants to regain his trust. But perhaps there's another - better - way. Merlin pulls a long knife from his right boot and offers it to young Unwin, hilt first. "If ye want to protect yerself, ye'll need something more than a butter knife to do any damage." He stretches out his arm, but makes no move to step into the coach.

Quicker than Merlin would think possible, the young Omega grabs the knife. He doesn't attack, though. "Where are we?"

"About halfway between Bath and London. There's another full day's travel before we get to our destination."

"Which is?" The boy's voice is remarkably steady for someone so afraid.

"Richmond Forest, just outside of London. Ye'll be safe there." Merlin's playing a very calculated game, parsing information with great care.

"Safe? I didn't know I was in danger - until I realized that my coachman and outrider had been replaced by strangers."

"Ye are, laddie. And not from me or from my companions, who ye should meet. They're good Alphas and like me, are sworn to protect ye."

That earns Merlin a serious frown. "Why would you and your 'good Alphas' be sworn to protect me?"

"Because we knew yer da, Lee. He was our friend. He was a hero."

Gary nods. "I know that. He saved Percival Morton's life."

"And the lives of many others that terrible day. Including the two Alphas in the front of the coach, and the Alpha who sent me on this quest to protect ye."

"You still haven't told me who I'm in danger from." Gary moves a little closer to the coach door. "Why would I have any enemies? I'm just a junior secretary to the trustee for Morton Crescent, going about his employer's business."

Merlin doesn't say anything, hoping that the kitling will make the connection.

And he draws the conclusion Merlin had hoped for. "Lord Chester? Old Stinkbottom? I'm in danger from him?"

"Aye, Gary." Merlin's not surprised about the epithet. Chester King has had an opium problem for decades. And a hygiene problem, too.

"Eggsy, that's my nickname, it's what my Da called me. No one calls my Gary, not even my mum."

"Very well, Eggsy. And yes, yer in danger from Old Stinkbottom. Why did he say ye needed to go to London?"

"Actually, I'm supposed to be going to Cambridge first, to deliver a letter to Lord Chester's bankers here. And then to London to give some letters to Lord Hesketh, Lord Chester's sister."

"May I see those letters?" Merlin needs to keep up the pretense.

Eggsy shakes his head. "No, not yet. I want to meet your companions first. I want to make sure that they're not lying to me."

"And ye can tell by just looking at them?"

"No, by their scent. Unless they're as stinky as Lord Chester, I'll know."

Merlin had once heard that some Omegas had extremely sensitive noses and could detect the truth from another's scent. He hadn't believed it at the time, but perhaps it's true. He steps away from the coach door and lets Eggsy - a strange name, that's for certain - exit the coach. He offers the Omega a hand, but he's rebuffed when Eggsy jumps down, ignoring the coach steps, and lands as light and as sure as a cat.

"Tristan, Bedivere, will ye join us?" Merlin calls out.

A few moments later, his companions come around from the front - Tristan had been looking at the lead horse, trying to see why it's gone lame.

"Alphas, it's my honor to introduce ye to our friend Lee's pup, the Omega, Eggsy Unwin." Merlin sticks with the formal turn of phrase. 

Tristan smiles broadly, the smile doing wonders to soften her severe features. "You've got the look of your father, Eggsy. He had always been so proud of his little Egg. Carried around a sketch he made of you when you were a little bit of a thing. He loved you very much, both you and your mother."

Merlin had forgotten about that, how Lee would share the letters that Michelle had sent, chronicling her life with a rambunctious child. It had been something that all of the Kingsman had enjoyed. Home and family were only vague concepts for most of Merlin's fellow reconnaissance riders; plans for mates and family only vague dreams for Alphas committed to a war that might never come to an end. Lee Unwin and Percival Morton had been the rare exceptions.

And having experienced Percival's constant grief over his Omega, who had lost cub after cub, Tristan had initially scoffed at the idea of having a mated Alpha in their company. But she'd quickly come around when Lee had proven himself as a canny rider and a better friend.

Bedivere doesn't say anything at first, just stares at Eggsy with hungry eyes. No, that's not quite correct, with eyes that are searching for something. Finally, his speaks, his voice eternally roughed by a terrible wound. "Tristan's wrong. You look more like your mum than your da. You've got her eyes and her dimples."

"You knew my mother?" Eggsy doesn't lower the knife, but he seems much less wary.

"Yes, she was the prettiest girl in Penzance. Sweet and kind and loyal, smart as a whip and wouldn't take disrespect from anyone. She met your da and there was never anyone else for her." 

Eggsy looks like he's about to cry. "My da's death wrecked her. Not just as an Omega losing her mate, but she loved him beyond reason."

Bedivere bows his head. "I'd serve and protect you, Omega Unwin, if you'd allow. I would like the chance to offer the same to your family, too." The gravelly voice is filled with almost desperate emotion.

 _Well, fuck._ Merlin's both elated and aggravated at this display. Bedivere's loyalty is to Kingman, and yes, Eggsy Unwin will be their lord's mate, his _Arlodhes_ , and will be able to call on the knights' loyalty as an extension of Harry. Bedivere shouldn't be offering Eggsy his loyalty as a separate oath. But Bedivere had been stupidly in love with the Omega girl, Michelle Tremaryn, well before Lee Unwin had appeared on the horizon. She had never seen Bedivere as a suitor, and in the process, broke his heart. 

But that's the past and Merlin needs to focus on the here and now - getting young Unwin to trust them. Bedivere's untimely vow seems to work, or maybe the boy can really scent the truth from the two Alphas. He smiles, transforming the handsomeness to true masculine beauty. No wonder why Harry's so captivated.

Eggsy asks, "Are Miles and John Coachman really unharmed?"

Tristan answers, "Aye. They're in Bath, at the best coaching inn in the city. They'll stay there for a few nights, until we return the coach and team to them to take back to Morton Crescent. They were exhausted after five days and nights of travel without decent rest. For this, if not for anything else, proves that Lord Chester is up to something - not to arrange for a relief driver and guard? You could have all been killed if your coachman fell asleep at the reins. Who commands an eight-day trip without stopping? Only someone bent on devilry."

"That's Old Stinkbottom, I guess." Eggsy bites his lip. "I want to trust you - "

"Eggsy - can we see the letters that you're supposed to deliver?" Merlin's almost certain that those envelopes are empty. Chester King wouldn't bother to dictate correspondence that would never be delivered.

Eggsy's reluctant, but he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small, wrapped package. "I thought it was odd - Lord Chester never writes his own letters and his senior secretary, Miles, always takes notes and passes them to me to write out. I have the better penmanship. And - " Eggsy bites his lip.

"Kitling?"

"And when he said I needed to go to Cambridge first, I'd asked Lord Chester if he was having me deliver a letter of instruction to his bankers - to cover Charlie's debts. He seemed distracted and told me to draft what I'd usually sent, but he never does that. Lord Chester is always particular about his correspondence."

Eggsy goes pale and his eyes widen. "Oh my lord, that bastard was sending me to his son. He must know I'm going - " As pale as Eggsy had gotten, he turned bright red just seconds later as he realizes what he's saying.

Tristan and Bedivere look away with Alphas' natural embarrassment, but Merlin keeps Eggsy's gaze. He doesn't confirm or contradict Eggsy's conclusion, that Chester was sending a ripening Omega to his son for his son's sexual convenience. This had been one of Harry's deepest worries, that Chester might very well send Eggsy to Charlie for ruination if he'd gotten wind of Harry's interest in the Omega.

Without another word, Eggsy hands the packet to Merlin, and he opens it. There are four sealed letters addressed to Earl Hesketh in a spidery handwriting, plus a letter to the Cambridge branch of Coutts, one of London's most prominent banks. Merlin knows, as a fact, that Coutts has suspended Chester King's account for persistent overdrafts and lack of funds.

He ignores that letter and opens one of the missives directed to Earl Hesketh. As he'd suspected, the envelope contains two sheets of blank paper. He hands them to Eggsy and opens the rest. All of them contain the same thing - nothing.

"What am I to do?" Eggsy sounds utterly broken. "My mum and sister are at Morton Crescent, they'll worry about me something fierce. Lord Roxy, too. I have to go home."

"Ye can't. Not yet. Not until we take care of the threat to your life."

"You mean my virtue."

"Nay, Eggsy. Yer life. What Lord Chester and his son would do to ye would destroy ye. Yer a kind, soft creature, ye don't know what the world is like. What evil men will do with the least incentive."

"Your wrong about that. I know what evil men do. My stepda was a vicious bastard who nearly broke my mum." Eggsy spits into the grass. "Second best day of our lives was when the Crown arrested Dean and his mutts for trying to rob the Mail. First best day was when they were hung on Portsmouth's Tyburn Tree."

Merlin risks a glance over at Bedivere, and Bedivere's reaction doesn't surprise him. His fists are clenched, his face red with anger, except for the long scar that runs from his temple, across his nose and cheek, down his neck, disappearing into his collar. But Bedivere remembers his mission and says nothing. 

"I'm sorry for that, kitling. Sorry we weren't there to protect ye and yer mum."

Eggsy nods, accepting the apology. "So what now?"

"If ye'll permit, we'll go to the house we've secured for ye in Richmond." 

"Will it be all right if I draft a letter to my mum, she's going to be worried when if she doesn't get a letter. I always write to her when I'm traveling."

"That'll be fine, Eggsy. Let's get going and when ye'r settled, ye can write to yer mum and let her know yer safe, but ye'll need to be away for a bit."

"Thank you." Eggsy smiles again and again Merlin's stunned by the Omega's beauty. He helps Eggsy back into the coach and goes around to talk to Bedivere and Tristan.

Tristan says, her voice low, "You can't let the boy write to his mother. Not yet."

"I know that. One wrong word could send this crashing down around our ears."

Bedivere, even more taciturn than usual, goes to deal with the lame horse, leaving Merlin and Tristan to figure out a way forward. Tristan shakes her head, "I do wish that Harry didn't have to indulge his flair for the dramatic. And I also wish you didn't enable him."

Merlin sighs. "If wishes were crowns, we might all be kings. Ye know that whatever Harry Hart wants, Harry Hart is going to get. And he wants that Omega as his mate. Who are we to deny him?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	6. London

Walking out of the portrait gallery, Roxy had felt strong, resolute, and determined. That feeling lasts approximately as long as it takes to return to her chambers before dissipating.

She spends the next two days dithering. All fine and well to say that she’s bound for the Black Hart, but how on Earth is she to go to London? Chester will never give her leave. More, Chester will never give her money. Roxy can’t merely hop on her hunter and lope off down the turnpike. It’s more than a week’s journey to London, and along the way there will be lodgings to procure, food for herself and her horse, gratuities… and then there’s the matter of supporting herself when she reaches Town. How is it to be done? Roxy tries, futilely, to evolve some plausible lie by which Chester might be induced to send her to London. She fails, naturally. The business of her uncle’s life is to keep Roxy locked away in Morton Crescent. He’ll not let her go for anything short of plague, and perhaps not even then. A convenient death, after all, and one that cannot possibly be attributed to malice…

On the third day, frustrated, she rides into the village. In an effort to cheer herself up, she gives in to Daisy Unwin’s begging to be allowed along, but for the first time, pointing out the beauties and practicalities of the estate to young Daisy gives Roxy no joy. It still reminds Roxy of learning the same from Percival, yes. But today Daisy’s laughing brown eyes also remind Roxy that Daisy’s no descendent of the Morton line. Roxy’s only playing pretend. She’ll never have offspring of her own. She’ll never have an heir. And perhaps she’ll never have an estate, either.

“Why do you look so sad, Lord Roxy?” Daisy asks. Roxy makes up a smile to give her, and points to the cows afield, launching into a discussion of pasturing to avoid answering the question.

They spend the morning looking over the dwellings and farms of the tenants. Mostly matters are well in hand, thanks to the re-roofing campaign she’d arranged winter before last; Chester had grumbled, but the farms had yielded well that year, and Charlie’s debts had been low. And Roxy had pointed out that putting money _into_ the cottages had justified taking money _out_ of them in the form of higher rents. She’d have felt guilty about that, but Chester had planned to raise the rents anyway, and nothing Roxy could have done to stop him: at least this way the tenants had gained some value for their coin, and she’d staved off a wave of unrest besides.

Not that it wouldn’t have served Chester right to be run off Morton Crescent at the end of a pitchfork. But if the militia had had to become involved it could have threatened Roxy’s title to the land as well –

Roxy looks away from the newly-thatched roofs, and takes Daisy to visit Sam Miller.

Sam Miller lives on the edge of town, near the stream, the better to let its power drive the wheel that mills such of Morton Crescent’s wheat as is destined for sale within the manor. Outside the manor it’s cheaper to ship unmilled and let the buyer deal with it, but for local use the old water-mill still turns, grinding patiently and not terribly fine. Roxy has been worried about the stream of late. The autumn rains have been excessive. Now, while Daisy eats fresh bread, Roxy hears Sam Miller’s complaints: the stream has indeed widened its banks, as she’s feared, and to such a degree that the eroding left bank now threatens one of the supports of the mill itself. The support must be moved, and the bank itself reinforced, so that it does not erode further. And time is of the essence. Harvest is the most critical time for the mill: it operates day and night as the wheat is reaped, and the funds from sale are no less vital to the upcoming winter’s supplies as the flour that is kept for baking.

In front of Sam Miller, Roxy nods and takes notes and makes all the right noises. Later, though, Roxy sits with the estate’s account books in front of the fire in the library and stares at them in despair. The numbers are easy to read, thanks to the bevy of fresh wax candles burning merrily. An almost wasteful number of candles, according to the account books in Roxy’s lap. According to the account books, the estate could perhaps afford her a single tallow taper. And a squint.

Even if Charlie never incurred another debt in his life, the estate would still be in difficulty. Even if Chester never drank another bottle of wine… 

A tap on the door and Roxy straightens, expecting her uncle, but it’s only old Dagonet. The senior servant shakes his head. “Lord King says he isn’t available to discuss business tonight,” he says gently.

“I doubt that’s how he put it.”

Dagonet coughs. Discreetly.

Roxy closes her eyes. “Tell me.”

Now Dagonet sighs. “He says you’ve got your income as stipulated by your sire’s will, and the estate doesn’t owe you a penny more. Nor can it afford it.”

“It can’t afford it because of Chester’s mismanagement. And I haven’t got a penny to spend on stream siding because I had to rebuild the dam after the flooding. Last quarter it was the stables, and the quarter before that it was repairs to the servants’ quarters. Chester skimps on basic maintenance to fund his wastrel cub’s gambling debts and then has the audacity – ” Roxy runs out of breath. Outrage tightens iron bands around her chest. Outrage and helplessness.

Dagonet waits a beat. “Lord Chester says perhaps he will be available to discuss matters next week,” he offers.

“Next week the mill will have collapsed,” Roxy says furiously. “Next week the cost of our wheat and corn will have tripled. Next week – ”

Dagonet raises an eyebrow. Roxy trails off, feeling unaccountably as if she’s been scolded.

“Later is later, young master,” Dagonet says. “The question is, what are you going to do now.”

“Do? Dagonet, what can I do?” Roxy slumps back in her chair, frustrated beyond the ability to conceal. “Even if I were lord today, there’s simply no money! They’ve spent it all!” And to think this morning Roxy had been worried about going to London to try to save the estate. Now she begins to think there may be no choice but to sell part of it off – and not for the sake of Charlie’s gambling debts, either. But whether for gambling or mill-work, sale of land still leads to the same slow spiral of death for the estate as a whole. It’s a trap with no escape. Morton Crescent is going to be destroyed while Roxy watches and there’s nothing she can do about it.

“And what does that have to do with anything, young master?”

Roxy blinks angrily – the firelight is starting to blur around the edges; she’ll have a talk with the housemaid about that tomorrow, she thinks. “One cannot spend money one doesn’t have, Dagonet.”

“Oh?”

Roxy looks up. “Yes, _oh_ , Dagonet. Goods and services require funds.”

“Nay, lad,” Dagonet says, sounding suddenly like Roxy’s old schoolteachers. “They require _credit_. Which is a different thing entirely.”

“Mortgaging the estate is no better than selling it,” Roxy says wearily.

“There are other ways to raise funds.”

“How? There’s nothing to secure them with, and no prospect of repayment, either.”

“Think, lad. Lord Charles owns no estate. He has no income save what his sire and Earl Hesketh give him. And yet Charles never seems to have any difficulty spending more than he has.”

Roxy feels her spine slowly straighten in spite of herself, pulling her out of her despondent slouch. “He has nothing,” she says carefully. “Nothing except his name.”

“And his inheritance. Aye.”

“And that’s enough?”

“If you were to go to, say, a turnpike inn – ” Roxy nearly swallows her tongue, horrified – “and tell them to send the bill to Morton Crescent, they’d nod and smile you and offer you another glass of ale.”

Roxy looks thoughtfully at the man in front of her. Old, beyond a doubt. Beginning to stoop a little. Thin.

Soft-footed. More knowledgeable about the world than Chester and Roxy put together. Loyal. Possessed of an amazing range of skills.

“Eggsy Unwin never arrived at Cambridge,” Roxy says impulsively.

Dagonet raises his eyebrows. “Did he not, now?”

“He never wrote to his carrier. But he always writes to his carrier, when he travels. She says so, and I believe her.”

Dagonet nods thoughtfully. “But lad,” he says. “Lord Chester often sends Miss Unwin to attend to matters he doesn’t wish to make public.”

“Such as my cousin’s gambling debts.”

“Ah, more debts, is it?”

Roxy does not permit this show of ignorance to deter her. “Charlie went to London over last semester’s break,” she goes on. “He gambled a great deal. At a gaming hell called the _Black Hart_.” A breath. “Have you heard of it?”

Dagonet makes a considering noise.

* * *

Roxy rides daily. This is well known in the household. Her hunter is one of her few indulgences, something that Chester permits because it fits in with his notion of what an Alpha ought to be. Sometimes there’s a conflict around the edges of Chester’s psyche, a gap between his desire to maintain appearances and his need to control Roxy. A gap Roxy’s exploited before, and intends to exploit again.

She goes down to the stables at the usual time. Spends some time speaking to the stablehands, looking over the other horses. Generally playing the master of the estate. A role she’s taken on for years, even without the title to back her up. Doing her duty to the best of her ability.

It occurs to Roxy to wonder, not without some amusement, how on earth Chester is going to manage Morton Crescent without her. Of course if she abandoned it for too long it would begin to run into disrepair: but a few weeks’ object lesson sounds like just the thing for her lazy Uncle.

“No, I’ll saddle him myself,” Roxy says to young Jemmy, petting Strider’s nose affectionately. “Why don’t you run up to the house? Cook was just taking a batch of cookies out of the oven. Tell him I said you’re to have one.”

The stablehand grins, wide and toothy. She’s short an incisor, Roxy notices – growing fast, getting her adult teeth. The extra calories will come very welcome. “Thank you, my Lord!” she lisps, and remembers to bow before she runs off towards the house and the promised treat.

“And thank you,” Roxy murmurs. She saddles Strider and leads him out to the field, where, to her utter lack of surprise, Dagonet is waiting.

“Here you are, lad,” he says, handing over a packed saddlebag. The few necessities it contains are a far cry from the way a lordling usually travels – the way Roxy can remember travelling when her parents had been alive – but Roxy is used to less, now, and now it might actually be an advantage. She’ll need to make a certain amount of show in order to trade on the name _Lord Morton_ , but jewels are lighter than a full wardrobe. And can be pledged or sold in the event of need.

“Thank you, Dagonet,” Roxy says sincerely. She ties the saddlebag on and goes to mount. Dagonet stops her.

“Lad,” he says gruffly, “you ought to have your parents here; I’m sorry you don’t. But if you’ll humor an old man for a moment, I’d like to tell you that they would be proud of you. And that you can’t do better than your best, whatever the result ends up being.”

Roxy has to clear her throat. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Then off with you.” He steps back. “I’ll keep Chester off your trail as long as I can.”

“Thank you,” she says again, not trusting herself to say anything more. Then she urges Strider around and takes off down the road.

* * *

London. Dark, dank, dreary, and full of death, London spreads before Roxy like a carpet dragged out from the attic of Morton Crescent. Large, to be sure. And in and among the patches of dirt, the holes eaten by moths, the threadbare emptiness, riches glimmer. But a few strands of expensive purple-dyed wool and gold thread cannot redeem a whole ravaged by time and neglect. London is a sinkhole, and Roxy has hated it since her first memory.

She rides Strider onwards nevertheless. There’s an old lodging-house she remembers from her previous visits. Hopefully it’s still in operation. The Lords Morton had never had enough to own a house in Town, though Chester had rented one for Roxy’s Season, and no doubt will do the same when Charlie goes looking for a mate. The few times James had brought Roxy to London, they hadn’t been staying near long enough to make renting a full house worthwhile. Besides, until the last time, James hadn’t wanted to advertise his visits.

The last time they’d come, it had been to claim Percival’s body and take him home for burial. They hadn’t lingered then, either.

Roxy remembers that day, as she rides down cobblestone streets, the brim of her hat turned low. It had been raining. One might have thought that the rain would wash some of the filth off London, give her some veneer of beauty, but the opposite had happened. The rain had disturbed piles of dirt and waste that might otherwise have slept unnoticed, sending them streaking down the sides of buildings and pooling in the streets to flaunt their ugliness to one and all. The chill of the rain had penetrated down to Roxy’s bones. When she’d dared to touch her carrier’s hand, it had been like ice. And she hadn’t been able to lie to herself and tell her that her own face was only wet from the rain.

Roxy hates London.

But the lodging-house is still there, and the door is opened by the same Beta woman Roxy remembers. She seems miraculously unchanged by the passage of years. Perhaps Mistress Jeanne’s bun is a little bit greyer, her cheeks a little bit thinner. Or perhaps that’s only the difference between a pup’s recollection and an adult’s perception. Mistress Jeanne, it’s clear, remembers Roxy: her eyes open wide, and she curtseys.

Curtseys rather lower than she ever had to Roxy as a pup, in fact. “Lord Morton,” she says respectfully. “It’s good of you to look up an old woman. I hope you’re well.”

Roxy fidgets, and through the reins she’s holding she feels Strider fidget, too. “Mistress Jeanne, it’s good to see you,” she says. “Is my carrier’s old suite available?”

“Of course, my Lord. Let me summon the boy to take up your bags.”

“No need.” Roxy shakes her head. “Just the stablehand for Strider here, and I’ll manage my own things.”

Mistress Jeanne takes in the apparent sight of Lord Morton with no more luggage than what’s in her saddlebags without the flicker of an eyelash. “Quite so. Please step in, Lord Morton. Joey will be around in a moment to attend to your horse.”

The door closing behind Roxy is like the bang of a hunting-rifle. Suddenly, for a moment, the wallpaper and carpet and side table take her back in time. She’s half her current height, clutching her carrier’s hand, staring about in wide-eyed curiosity. To the adult Roxy the small house is the Platonic representation of genteel poverty. She knows Mistress Jeanne is a youngest daughter, has never married, and supplements her small income by taking in – for a few days, for a week – other gentles whose purses do not stretch to renting a house, and whose annual expenditures do not include membership in a club. But the cub-Roxy had never known anything but the ancient respectable comfort of Morton Crescent. To her, the painful cleanliness of the worn carpet had been a startling contrast, the high gloss of the old furniture an inexplicable combination.

“Lady Morton always favored the Blue Room, if my memory serves me,” Mistress Jeanne murmurs, coming up past Roxy and gesturing discreetly to recall the way to Roxy’s wandering attention. “Should you like it as well, my Lord, or would the Lodge Room be more to your tastes?”

Roxy had peeked inside the Lodge Room once, curious, when she’d been left to her own devices too long while James transacted whatever mysterious business had brought them to London. The abundance of dark wood paneling and looming animal heads had made the cub-Roxy feel as if the room had been closing in on her. She shakes her head decisively. “The Blue Room would be lovely, thank you, Mistress Jeanne.”

“I’ll have hot water sent up at once. Will you be dining in?”

Roxy hesitates. She wants to be about her labor as soon as possible, but she’s painfully ignorant of the ways of gaming hells – would food even be available? “Yes, please.” She takes a breath before going on. But why should Mistress Jeanne care? Had she ever cared about James’ movements? Not a whit – and isn’t that interesting, in retrospect.

“After dinner,” Roxy says deliberately, “I will be going out. I may return quite late.”

Mistress Jeanne pauses by the stairs. From her pocket she withdraws a key, old and heavy, of a piece with the house and the furnishings, and offers it to Roxy.

“Yes, young master,” she murmurs.

* * *

The first thing Roxy notices is the heat.

Setting foot into the Black Hart is like setting foot in hell. The heat is everywhere, oppressive. The air is drenched with the sweat of the patrons. They cluster around dimly lit tables in little knots, fine clothes stained and dirty with sin. Out of the thick pall of smoke caused by the pervasive cigars, a waiter looms, then another. The first bears a tray of champagne. The second, a tray of coins. Alphas all, her nose tells her at a whiff – or no, not quite all. Every now and then a door opens off the cavernous main room, and a smiling, charmingly dressed figure will escort a gambler out. The only prostitutes Roxy has ever seen have been the scantily-clad waifs who ply their trade on the corners of London mews, but she recognizes their higher-class counterparts when she sees them.

The second thing Roxy notices is the noise. She doesn’t quite know what she’d expected; silence, perhaps, oppressive and ubiquitous? Or perhaps she’d expected shouted words, fights, arguments. The Black Hart has neither. It has conversations hissed as if the mere force of words is the slashing of a sword. It has sudden, shocking laughter that dies away as if smothered by the next fall of cards. It has the clink of coins changing hands and the clang of glasses being set unsteadily down on tables by shaking hands. It is a cacophony, but one conducted at a level of sound barely above a whisper.

Across the room, an entertainer begins singing. Roxy catches only a few words over the silent din. Italian, she thinks. Something strident and dark. Roxy has to consciously tune the singer out; the words are distracting, the urge to pick them out of the background hum automatic. Perhaps that’s the point. Distracted gamblers lose money, and as she watches, two players at the nearest table lose very large sums indeed.

“You’re new here.”

Roxy turns to look. The speaker is a female Alpha like herself, very nearly as tall as Roxy is, with hair shining brighter than the dim lamps of the Black Hart and eyes bluer than any that have ever appeared in the Morton line. Roxy abruptly regrets her own muddy green-hazel, the dun-colored hair she’s twisted carelessly in a knot at the base of her neck, and the sensible riding tweeds she hadn’t bothered to change out of. The Alpha smiling a professionally enticing smile is wearing a gown the exact shade of her eyes, and – despite the heat – a fur that has somehow managed to remain luminously white in the midst of all this dirt and squalor.

Or perhaps that’s only Roxy’s perception. When the mysterious Alpha smiles, the hell suddenly seems less hell-like in the reflected flash of teeth.

“In fact I’d wager you’ve never set foot in anyplace like this before,” she goes on. “But you fit.”

Roxy stiffens. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oooh, outrage. That’s different.” The mystery takes Roxy’s arm, for all the world as if she’s a carrier, and Roxy is betrayed into scenting her more obviously than is quite polite. The spicy musk leaves no doubt as to the mystery’s gender. Nor does the warmth beginning, inconveniently, to coil in Roxy’s loins.

_Stop that,_ Roxy tells her misbehaving body. “Why do you say I belong here?”

The mystery tugs on Roxy’s arm, and perforce, Roxy follows her – she has no wish to cause a scene, which appears to be her only other alternative. “You’re old blood,” the mystery says simply, as if it’s as obvious as that.

“While I won’t argue that many old families waste their fortunes on games of chance, I’d hardly believed that nobility was a prerequisite for bad choices.”

The mystery’s laugh is throaty and warm. “Look around. This isn’t a common gambling hell, funneling the masses down the great thoroughfare to sin. This is the private coach, driving smoothly down the toll road. Only the best come here. The rest are turned away at the door.”

“By you?” Roxy asks, making her reply by sheer reflex. The rest of her is occupied with looking around a second time. This time she notices the carpeting on the floor. The tapestries on the wall. The stiff, correct movements of the waiters circulating with drinks and delicacies.

She’d allowed her upbringing and preconceptions to blind her, she sees. Wax candles and gilding aren’t actually the default. Deliberately, Roxy compares her surroundings to Mistress Jeanne’s dwellings, and begins to see what the mystery is speaking of.

And speaking of – “Do I look like a bouncer to you?” The mystery stops and turns towards Roxy, allowing Roxy to look her from head to toe – and head again.

“Like nothing of the sort,” Roxy murmurs. She bows, courtly fine, as if the mystery is a lady in truth rather than a lord. And the lord laughs, by which Roxy understands that she is forgiven.

“This way, my Lord.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where all lords like you must go, your first time in the Hart.” The mystery draws to a halt beside a small boxy demi-shack, built against one corner of the large room but open to it through a wide grating. “The accountant.”

Inside the demi-shack are several tables, account-books spread wide and figures bent studiously over them. Roxy’s nose registers a change: these are Betas. One of them rises at their approach, coming to meet them at the grating and bowing respect. “Good eve, my Lord. What matters of your account may we attend to?”

“My friend here needs to know her line of credit,” the mystery says imperiously.

The accountant inclines her head. “Of course. Your name, my Lord?”

Roxy hesitates, but – _only the best come here._ “Morton,” she says, speaking the truth. And willing her spine to remain stiff.

The accountant’s eyebrows rise. “Of course, my Lord,” she says, and bows again, somewhat more deeply, before turning back to a set of books.

The mystery turns towards Roxy, too. “Morton,” she murmurs. “Well, well.”

“My name is a respectable one,” Roxy says, nettled.

“I’d never say it isn’t, my Lord.” The mystery takes a polite step back, giving her room to bow, then returns to her place on Roxy’s arm. “You may call me Tilde.”

This is said warmly, flirtatiously even, but Roxy refuses to take the bait. “Why are you surprised by my name?”

“I knew I was right earlier,” Tilde says, “but I didn’t know how right.”

“Right?”

“When I said that you belonged here.”

“Why is that?” Roxy asks, but before she can receive her answer – if the mystery is even inclined to answer – the accountant returns.

“Your family’s account was suspended at your sire’s passing, but may be reactivated with your signature. Naturally, you enjoy the highest level of credit.”

Roxy stares. _The highest level? My family’s account? My sire’s passing?_

“How much – ” Roxy begins to say. She stops when Tilde treads on her foot, quite purposefully.

“The papers for Lord Morton,” she says.

“They are here, my Lord,” the account says, presenting them, along with a pen.

“And if I don’t wish to gamble?” Roxy asks.

The accountant’s face doesn’t change. “Whether you gamble or not is your business. But only members – by which I mean account holders – may enjoy the environs of the Black Hart.”

“There _is_ something more you wanted here, isn’t it?” Tilde murmurs. “Someone you were hoping to find, perhaps?”

Roxy stares at her. Tilde gazes back, half-lidded, a slow lazy smile on her face.

“And if there is?”

“Then sign,” Tilde invites.

_The private coach, driving smoothly down the toll road,_ Roxy thinks.

But she has to know. Not just what had happened to Eggsy Unwin. Not just who owns the Black Hart, and who holds Charlie’s vowels, and what they might sell them for, besides part of Roxy’s birthright.

_The highest level. My family’s account. My sire’s passing._

Roxy takes the pen, and she signs.


	7. Lord of The Black Hart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Hart, Marquess of Cardoc, _Arlodh_ of Tintagel, the owner of The Black Hart, and the leader of Kingsman, waits impatiently for news about the young Omega he's having his people kidnap. There is nothing more important than his future mate.

As a child, Harry Hart had been wild, impatient, impetuous, and yes – imperious. These traits had been fostered and then encouraged by his carrier's sire, the first Marquess of Cardoc, who had often told Harry that he had the blood of the ancient Cornish kings in his veins. While his grandsire was a cunning and dangerous Alpha who had proudly claimed to be a pirate and had kidnapped his mate right from the church were he'd been set to marry another, Harry's sire and carrier were of a more respectable bent and had done their best to tame their only cub. After all, he would become – hopefully in many years hence – the _Arlodh_ of the ancient seat of Tintagel. The _Arlodh_ must take care of his people. A wild and unruly cub who couldn't sit still for his lessons would become a poor _Arlodh_ and his people would suffer for that.

As for the peerage, while Harry's grandsire had taken pleasure out of the honor bestowed upon him by the current mad monarch's sire, the Alpha had never valued it overmuch. To him, it was a mere frippery, payment for services rendered. As he'd taught his own cub, Harry's sire, and Harry thereafter, it is the ancient obligation of the _Arlodh_ that truly matters. 

The old man had thought it a pity that he and his own cub had such divergent approaches to what consitututes proper behavior in an _Arlodh_. But some of Harry's sire's lessons take hold, and by the time Harry's grandsire passes peacefully in his sleep, Harry has learned to control the wildness and impatience, to find the balance and the measure of all things. 

At least on the surface. 

As much as he loves his sire and carrier, as much as he respects the dignity that comes with being heir to the Marquess of Cardoc and the responsibilities he will - in some far future day - inherit, he had too much of his grandsire in him to be truly civilized. 

At nineteen, against the wishes of his parents, against all custom for the eldest, and only Alpha of his line, Harry takes a portion of his grandsire's legacy and purchases a commission. But not in any honorable Cornish regiment, no – he had to follow in the old rogue's footsteps and resurrect The Kingsmen, a company of gentlemen spies.

Years later, Harry recognizes that his actions had be the very height of foolishness; the Hart line could have ended for all eternity by something as insignificant as a tiny piece of lead. But it didn't, and in the process, Harry Hart became a legend.

And today, that legend is as impatient as the undisciplined child he'd once been; pacing the confines of his office, trying to do some paperwork, only to toss it back on the desk in a fit of disgust. Harry reaches for a decanter of scotch whiskey, but changes his mind. He has had a strict policy never to drink during working hours; he can't afford to have his wits dulled by drink, if something goes wrong. And something always goes wrong.

So Harry picks up the ledger again and tries not to think about what is happening. 

Five nights ago, Merlin, Tristan and Bedivere had left to intercept the package, and two days ago, a courier had delivered a brief message that they had taken possession of the Morton Crescent carriage, and that the guard and driver were comfortably ensconced in an inn just outside of Bath. 

But that had been it – nothing further, which irritates Harry to no end. In the course of two wars – the losing endeavor in the former Colonies and then against Napoleon in Spain – Harry had built up a wartime intelligence network that is had been unrivalled. Wellington and the British General Staff had sworn that Kingsman couriers had wings; they had been able to deliver information as quick or even quicker than the French semaphore lines. 

But those days are apparently just myth and memory now, as he has received no further communication from his most trusted deputies. 

Harry knows, logically, that his people are in transit to Richmond, and that the trip from Bath will take at least three days, maybe more if they have to make frequent stops. But logic doesn't soothe him. He wants his Omega.

Except that he can hear Merlin, ever loyal, and always ready to rein him in when he gets too full of power and pretense, saying, _The lad's not yers yet. Ye've got to woo him, ye've got to earn the right to call him yers. Otherwise, he's going to hate ye, he'll never be yer mate, he'll never be yer Arlodhes, ye fussy, preening, one-eye'd peacock._

No, Gary Unwin, Omega born out of Alpha Lee Unwin and Omega Michelle Tremaryn, a pup of purest lineage for fifteen generations, is not yet his. He will be, though. And soon.

"My lord?" Cassius, one of his floor managers, interrupts the dark contemplation.

"Yes?" Harry doesn't look up from the documents he's perusing, although his attention to them is utter pretense. He pays Cassius and the other floor managers quite well, and expects them to deal with any problems that might arise in an evening. But there are always some problems that require his attention.

"There's an issue at one of the tables."

Harry sighs and asks, "What kind of issue?"

"Lord Malfrey has accused the dealer at one of the _vignt-et-un_ tables of dealing from the bottom of the deck, of deliberately throwing him bad cards."

For a problem like this, Harry gives Cassius his full attention. "Is there any credence to this claim?" 

Cassius nods. "I'm afraid so. One of the other players at the table – a Mr. Rupert Foss – has a reputation, sir. As a blackmailer. Benedict, the dealer, had been seen talking to him earlier. He also happens to be a guest of Mr. Rufus Seville, one of Lord Charles King's acquaintances. I've put Lord Malfrey in one of the comfort suites and had Tilde send someone to him, on the house, of course. Benedict and Mr. Foss were quietly removed to the cellars."

"Thank you, Cassius. Good thinking. And return Lord Malfrey's losses to him with a ten percent bonus. That should satisfy his sense of ill-use." Harry pulls off his eye patch and puts on the full face mask he wears when he needs to be seen on the main floor of The Black Hart. He also tucks a pair of his favorite knives into his boots. If the dealer had been cheating, Harry will take both his index fingers. If this Mr. Foss is blackmailing Benedict, he'll make the man eat those fingers and then Harry will cut out his tongue.

For privacy's sake, Harry and Cassius take the servant's stairs that end just at the front door; Casca, the doorman, nods as he sees them. They pass a few patrons who give Harry a wide berth - he is rather fearsome in his mask and all-black attire. The knives he's carrying add to the impression of danger, and Harry relishes it.

He lets Cassius unlock the cellar door and he follows the man down. 

The Black Hart's cellars are like most other cellars in London, dank stone walls filled with cold and fetid air. Harry keeps a ratter on the payroll, a weasly man with a dozen terriers who come in every month to deal with the rodent problem. There are also a few cats that roam the cellars to take care of the problem in the interim. But despite the cats, and despite the man and his terriers, there are still rats in the Black Hart's cellars. Big ones. Vicious ones. Useful ones.

But he doesn't think he'll need anything so drastic tonight. Harry can't imagine that the dealer will put up much of a defense. And he doesn't. The man is already a blubbering wreck, and when Harry steps in the room, he pisses himself. Harry doesn't bother to unsheathe his knives. 

Cassius asks a single question, "Why?" and Benedict confesses to everything. His half-sister, who is married to a wealthy and much older man, had been seduced by young Rufus Seville and had written a number of indiscreet letters. Foss had purchased them and had been using them as leverage to force Benedict to throw winning hands his way.

Harry can't quite bring himself to do violence to the poor man, and even finds himself moved by the predicament. He tells Cassius to pay Benedict his wages and escort him off the premises. Foss, though, is another story, and Harry enjoys making the man scream as he takes both thumbs. When Cassius returns, he lets the man cauterize Foss' wounds and tells him to dispose of the "trash". He wipes his hands on a convenient rag and heads back upstairs.

His journey is interrupted by Casca, who gives him much longed for news "Forgive me, sir, but Masters Merlin, Tristan and Bedivere have returned and have gone up to see you."

Harry heads back upstairs and a few moments later, he's in his office, only to find Merlin, Bedivere and Tristan waiting for him, and having made free with Harry's liquor. Merlin's helped himself to Harry's whiskey, the other two are enjoying bumpers of French brandy.

Harry pulls off the mask and asks, "When, precisely, did I give you a key to my office?" This is a game they frequently play. Harry keeps his office door locked, and Merlin lets himself in, as if he's the magician he's named after.

Bedivere and Tristan look a little ashamed, but Merlin just grins. "I could tell ye, but I think ye'r rather more interested in where we've been and what we've been doing for the last four days." 

Harry goes over to the small bar and pours himself a generous measure of whiskey. He needs it. "Tell me."

Merlin cuts to the chase. "The lad's fine. A little tired, a little overwrought from the grueling travel, but otherwise, he's of good mind and better heart." Merlin chuckles at the pun. "We got him settled into the house in Richmond."

Harry lets out a deep sigh of relief. "He believed your cover story?"

Merlin shakes his head. "No, dinna have to bother with that. The lad knew that something was off the moment he saw me. Dinna believe for a moment that Chester King - or as he calls him, Old Stinkbottom - would have sent another outrider after leaving Bath. Also, he could smell Tristan and Bedivere here. Knew that they were Alphas, which freaked him out."

"Scent, not smell." Bedivere corrects Merlin, although that's a pointless endeavor. Over the decades that they've all known each other, Merlin, the lone Beta in the Kingsmen, has made such a habit of deliberately using the wrong term that everyone corrects him even when he uses the proper word.

Merlin waves a hand at Bedivere, dismissing him. "I told Eggsy – "

"Eggsy?" Harry's confused. "Who is Eggsy?"

"Yer future mate. It's his nickname, says that no one, not even his mum, called him Gary."

Harry thinks he can actually remember Lee calling his son that. "Very well, then – Eggsy. What did you tell him?"

"That Chester was sending him to Charlie for ruination. Even got the lad to hand over the letters he was supposed to deliver to Adamilia King. They were envelopes filled with blank pages."

"That's not so far from the truth, my friends. When I'd dined with Chester during my visit to Morton Crescent, he'd expressed concern that Lord Roxy might take up with Gary – excuse me, with Eggsy – and had said that if it came to that, he'd have Charlie despoil the lad, make him unfit as a future mate for Lord Roxanne." Harry stares into his whiskey, and says, more to himself than to his company, "I could not let that happen."

"And it won't, Colonel. Lee's boy is a little upset with everything, but otherwise, he's fine. A strong and fearless lad, that one. Pulled a butter knife on Merlin, demanded answers." Tristan drains her glass and gives Harry a hard look. "You'd better do right by that one, no faffing around, no playing games. And I'm not just saying that because he's Lee's boy. I like him, I want him at your side – but for the right reasons. Not because the Kingsman owes Lee Unwin a debt or because the Marquess of Cardoc has decided it's time to take a mate. Eggsy Unwin was born to be more than some junior secretary on an out of the way estate in Cornwall." 

Harry stands up, straightens his shoulders and gives his friends a hard, strong look. "You are right, Tristan. Eggsy Unwin was born for more. He was born to be my _Arlodhes_."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	8. The Gamble

Roxy moves deeper into the heart of darkness.

Tilde urges her onward. There are a pile of coins in Roxy’s hand. In the hidden inside pocket of Roxy’s suit jacket, her carrier’s mating-jewels rest. She hadn’t wanted to leave them in lodgings, even lodgings so safe as Mistress Jeanne’s. She’d thought she might need funds, as well. Who could have foreseen that all the funds she might require could be drawn, on credit, from the most notorious gambling hell in London?

_My family’s account._

“You will not like craps, I think,” Tilde is murmuring, drawing Roxy past crowded tables without hesitation or stutter in her step. “Faro – perhaps, in time, but first you’d have to learn to conceal your emotions, little cub.”

Roxy digs her heels in. “What emotion am I revealing now?” she demands coldly.

Tilde quirks an eyebrow. “A most becoming one,” she answers. “Come. Baccarat, I think, for you. Very simple – and very deceptive.”

“I’ve never played.”

“But you know the rules, don’t you? Ah – just a moment.”

Tilde slows her steps; Roxy, perforce, does the same. There’s an eddy in the crowd before them. Then, abruptly, it parts. Two figures stride through the opening. The first is a tall Alpha, dark haired. No other distinguishing features can be seen beneath the full face mask they wear. Combined with the pure black of their garb, the impression is one of utter menace. The second figure is almost totally eclipsed in both sight and scent: another Alpha, Roxy thinks, but she isn’t even sure. She wouldn’t know their face again. Her focus, like that of everyone else, is on the lead Alpha.

Then the pair vanish, the crowd closing in behind them. Chatter resumes; coins clink. A waiter circles with wine, and it’s as if the pair had never been.

“Who – ” Roxy starts.

“Some questions are not for answering, little cub,” Tilde murmurs. She resumes her forward movement. Roxy follows, not even remembering to take offense at the diminutive.

The baccarat table comes into view. Tilde draws Roxy up to it, neatly replacing another Alpha who appears to have lost his last coin and goes staggering away into the smoke. “You will observe Lord Aberlin has the shoe,” Tilde says, indicating a male Alpha in disheveled evening tails, who sits in stolid silence, chewing on a cigar.

“And you will recall that I do not wish to gamble,” Roxy replies. Her coins stay in her hand, safe.

“Lord Aberlin solicits bets,” the croupier announces.

“You do not wish to gamble? Then why are you here?” Tilde leans in closer. In the press of the crowd, this passes unremarked. “To gamble with coin, no – you did not come here for that. But your whole presence here tonight is a gamble. You have come for something, young Morton. Something I believe I may be able to give you.”

“ _Banco_ ,” calls the Alpha to Roxy’s left.

Tilde is close enough that Roxy can see the candles dancing in her eyes. They are enough of a height that Tilde’s breath is warm against Roxy’s lips. She tries to focus on what Tilde is saying, but her gaze is drawn to those lips. They look soft. A trifle plump. This close, Roxy can see that Tilde has painted them, and her eyelids, too, a daring act for an Alpha. At least any Alpha with claims to respectability, any Alpha who isn’t –

The pieces fall into place. “You work here,” Roxy gasps. No – that’s not quite right, is it? She knows before Tilde can correct her. “You have your work here,” she amends. “The prosti – the courtesans. They’re yours.”

Tilde’s laugh throws her head back. “Clever lord,” she says admiringly. “Yes, you’re quite right. I own and operate the, shall we say, _establishment_ next door, to which many of the young bucks you see here will retire after their pockets have lightened enough.”

“You’ve no ownership in this establishment yourself?” Roxy is suspicious.

“The ownership of the Black Hart is held by a small collective, in which membership is not easily gained,” Tilde says cryptically.

Roxy’s heart beats faster. “But you know who they are,” she dares. “You have an arrangement with them. The owners. To operate your business here as well.”

“Perhaps I do.”

“Tell me,” she demands, heart in her throat. “Tell me who they are.”

The Alpha to Roxy’s left stands up abruptly, face reddening. All eyes turn to him, including Tilde’s – and Roxy’s. For a moment it looks as if the Alpha is going to become enraged. But he seems to master himself after a moment, and only goes stomping off into the crowd.

“He lost his wager,” Tilde says unnecessarily. She smiles. “I think you will win yours, young lord.”

Roxy looks at the pile of winnings stacked next to the shoe: it’s substantial. And she can’t just see it as a pile of gold and silver. She looks at that money and sees roofs, dams, shoring for rivers. She sees seed grain and a schoolteacher for the village youths and a curate’s salary so their parish can cease being quite so underserved. She sees potential. Opportunity.

Opportunity.

“Supposing I did come here to gamble,” Roxy says, daringly. “Supposing I want information for my winnings, instead of coin.”

Tilde’s lips brush Roxy’s cheek. Roxy stands stock still, astonished by her daring.

“I am, after all, a businesswoman,” Tilde breathes.

“Lord Aberlin solicits bets,” the croupier announces again.

No one speaks. The croupier looks around the table, gaze moving counterclockwise until it rests on Roxy.

“ _Banco_ ,” Roxy says softly.

* * *

They tumble onto the sheets – “Are these actually silk?” Roxy asks, disbelieving, and Tilde laughs, throaty and muffled with the way she’s got her teeth sunk into Roxy’s shoulder. Tilde’s a biter, it turns out, which suits Roxy fine. She goes willingly onto her back in Tilde’s sumptuous private chamber, and pulls Tilde atop her, the better for Tilde to keep worrying Roxy’s collarbone.

“The business of sin pays well,” Tilde smirks.

Roxy trails her fingers down Tilde’s back. Her nails catch on the strands of golden hair, damp now with sweat and falling out of their elegant coiffure. She’s been hard since Tilde had scooped up Roxy’s final hand’s winnings and put a finger to her lips, stilling any further bets and drawing Roxy away with a promise in her eyes. Now Roxy can grind her hips upwards and feel an answering hardness above. It’s intoxicating.

“I won,” she says breathlessly. “You promised.”

“Pleasure first, young lord.”

Roxy agrees wholeheartedly.

Tilde is beautiful when she’s got Roxy’s cock in her mouth. She’s gorgeous when Roxy is riding her. And she’s stunning when she stretches aching limbs against silk sheets and says, “I wish I had a smoke.”

“I could go buy you one,” Roxy says, feeling sated and generous. The coins in her pocket have only grown, even after the Black Hart’s advance had been repaid and Tilde had taken her half of Roxy’s winnings. It’s more terrifying than heady: whatever taste there is for gambling, Roxy clearly lacks it. But the coins are hers nonetheless, and the chance to spend them on something that isn’t river shoring or roof repairs is to be savored.

Tilde rolls over onto her side, propping her head up on an elbow, and _tsk_ s at Roxy. “You shouldn’t let me out of your sight until you’ve gotten what you want of me,” she says seriously.

“Perhaps I’ve already gotten what I want of you,” Roxy murmurs, reaching out to tuck a falling lock of golden hair behind Tilde’s ear.

“Oh, you shouldn’t say such things,” Tilde whispers.

“Why not?” Roxy slides closer, daring to smile. She feels young, abruptly. She’s not sure she’s felt young since her parents had died, no matter what the passage of time has claimed.

“Young lord, they’ll eat you alive out there if you go on like this.”

“Roxy,” she says. “My name is Roxy.”

“What’s that short for?”

“Roxanne.”

“Roxanne,” Tilde repeats, rolling the syllables around on her tongue.

“No one calls me that, though.”

“Not your parents?”

“Lord, no. I was always Roxy to them.” Roxy rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “Or ‘cub’.”

“No wonder you don’t like me to call you that.” Roxy sneaks a glance; Tilde is smiling softly. “I thought it was just a young buck’s pride, but it’s not, is it? It’s a special memory.”

Roxy just grunts, uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

“Your sire,” Tilde says. “Was his Christian name Percival?”

“It was,” Roxy says, wondering.

Tilde nods. “He – or, I suppose, now you – are a shareholder in the Black Hart. Or rather, in Kingsman, who, wholly owns and operates the Black Hart. Among many other holdings – not all entirely legal, I should think.”

Roxy sits up slowly. “A shareholder?”

“A minority one. But yes.”

A dozen questions dart through Roxy’s mind. _Why wasn’t this in the account books? Does Chester even know about this? Who has control of these shares? Who’s been managing them?_

The one she asks is, “You’re sure?”

“I make sure to always know who I’m doing business with,” Tilde answers. “Kingsman is a legitimate company, though there’s more rumor and innuendo swirling around it than those of us in the demimonde will ignore. But their shareholders are public information, if precious little else is.”

“And my sire is – was – one of them.”

“Aye.”

“How many shareholders in total?”

“Eight.”

“Even shares?”

“Good. You ask the right questions,” Tilde murmurs. “I see your education in financial matters is not lacking, at least.”

Roxy reddens. “Do you find my education lacking in bedroom matters?”

“Not at all.” Tilde favors her with a lingering kiss. “I was thinking only of your gambling habits, truly.”

Roxy relents from her brief pet, already ashamed of it. “Of course.”

“And to answer your question: no, the shares are not even. There is one majority shareholder. The other shares are divided evenly among the remaining seven. Seven percent each. Including the Mortons of Morton Crescent, in the person of one Percival Alistair Morton, Earl.”

“My sire,” Roxy says unnecessarily. “And the majority shareholder?”

Tilde hesitates. “Before I answer you,” she says at last, sitting up to join Roxy, then quickly holding up a hand. “I promised, and I keep my promises. But first, tell me. Why do you want to know so much? Surely you already know with whom your sire was in business?”

“I know even less than I thought I did,” Roxy says quietly. “My sire’s estate is not in my keeping. My uncle schemes to steal it for his cub, my cousin. And a young Omega of good family, whose sire rode into battle with my own, has lately gone missing. He lives on my estate now, Tilde. He’s under my protection. And he’s gone.”

“What has that to do with – ”

Roxy shakes her head. “Dangerous to say too much, when so little can be proved. But the trail leads me here. The only one who can help me go forward is the Alpha who owns the Black Hart. The head of this, this _Kingsman_. I must find them. I must know, Tilde.”

Tilde nods slowly. Says, “The one you seek is Henry Reginald Hart, Marquess Cardoc.”

“Cardoc?” Roxy says in surprise. “I know him – his seat’s at Tintagel, barely a day’s journey from Morton Crescent.” Then the name begins to ring bells in her memory. “He’s visited my estate before. Once or twice in times gone by – a soldier, was he not?”

“Yes, a soldier.”

“In my sire’s regiment. Or perhaps my sire was in his.” Roxy strains her memory, but it had been long ago. So very long ago. And she had only ever heard of her sire’s soldiering past from Percival himself. James had hated to speak of it when Percival had been away, fearing that to bring up the topic invited disaster. And after Percival had died, James had spoken very little – and lived hardly less long.

But she’s also heard Marquess Cardoc’s name again. More recently. The Alpha himself – he’d visited Morton Crescent. To discuss business with her uncle.

What kind of business, Roxy had not been allowed to know. She thinks she knows now. She thinks that the business had pertained to Charlie’s gambling debts – and the method by which Chester was to repay them.

Flesh. Omegan flesh. For monetary debts. Roxy’s stomach heaves. She knows it happens – happens in every social sphere, under different names and a variety of legal justifications. But whether it’s called a bride-price or an arranged marriage or simple chattel slavery, it’s wrong. And Roxy will not allow it to happen to Eggsy Unwin. Not at the hands of a Marquess, or anyone else.

“I have to go.” Roxy stumbles from the bed. “I – forgive me – ”

“Of course, young Lord. Of course.” Tilde rises from the bed as well, helps Roxy find her clothes, and even helps her back into them. Roxy is reminded of Tilde’s profession – former profession, as she’d retired to full-time management when she’d established her own bordello – when Tilde ties Roxy’s cravat as deftly as her valet could aspire to.

“Tilde…” Roxy begins, when she’s fully dressed and hovering awkwardly by the door. She’s frantic to go and unwilling to leave; she wants to say everything and nothing. “Tilde, thank you. If I am back in Town – ”

“Young Lord, wait.”

“I cannot wait. Tintagel is over a week’s ride – ”

Tilde puts a finger over Roxy’s lips. “Cardoc may not even be at Tintagel.”

Roxy wants to scream in frustration. “It’s a place to start.”

Tilde smirks. “I have a better.”

* * *

Roxy dismounts Strider in front of the offices of Hardwick, Gideon, and Kenilworth, solicitors. She is fresh in a new suit – Roxy may have stayed out all night like the dissolute Alpha she’s never been, but Mistress Jeanne’s household has continued running in a well-regulated manner, the few changes of clothes Roxy had brought with her having been cleaned and pressed and hung neatly in the wardrobe of the Blue Room. And, in addition to last night’s winnings, her pockets now include a card-case. Last night her surname had opened the doors to the Black Hart. Today it will open doors of a very different kind.

A convenient urchin detaches himself from a nearby alley, sensing opportunities. Roxy lets him see the flash of a half-crown as she hands him Strider’s reins. “Mind, he bites,” she tells the youth – a lie, but a prudent one.

“I’ll watch ‘im, m’lord,” the urchin promises.

Thus reassured, Roxy strides up the stairs and knocks briskly upon the door. It opens with gratifying promptness, revealing a stiff-backed young Beta male with the aura of a superior servant and the clothes of a clerk. His gaze runs swiftly down Roxy, taking in bearing and attire, and his own attitude becomes more deferential. “How may I be of service, my Lord?”

Roxy extends a card. “Lord Morton. Please inform whichever of Misters Hardwick, Gideon, or Kenilworth handles the affairs for Kingsman that I am here to discuss my shares in the enterprise.”

The clerk-servant’s eyes widen. He takes Roxy’s card. “Please step inside, Lord Morton,” he says.

Roxy inclines her head graciously.

She’s shown to a small receiving-room and left there while the clerk goes to fetch his master – taking the stairs two at a time, Roxy sees before the door swings closed. Roxy hums to herself and turns, studying the art on the walls. She doesn’t sit. And she is justified: hardly has she had the chance to appreciate the landscape of Surrey when the door opens.

“Good day, my Lord Morton. I am Gideon.” The speaker is another Beta, female this time, just as straight-backed as the clerk but considerably more poised. Her skin is dark, darker even than the polished walnut paneling of this well-appointed room: Moorish in extraction, Roxy thinks, and she is taller than Roxy. She essays a half-bow in Roxy’s direction and says, “I understand you are here to discuss your shares in Kingsman, Ltd.”

“That is quite correct.” Roxy returns the bow. “Thank you for seeing me, Counsellor Gideon. I quite apologize for the abruptness of my visit. I found myself in Town unexpectedly.”

“Not at all, not at all.” By mutual accord, the two sit. “How may I be of assistance?”

“You will no doubt have been notified of my sire’s passing,” Roxy begins. Gideon makes an acknowledging murmur. “Since then, of course, our shares have been under your stewardship – or perhaps I should say Marquess Cardoc’s.”

“Indeed, Marquess Cardoc is the trustee for the Morton shares until my Lord reaches her majority,” Gideon says, “but I can assure you that they have not been treated any differently on that account. There has only been one vote of significance since the much-lamented passing of your worthy sire, and that was carried unanimously regardless.”

“Ah yes,” Roxy says, trying to sound knowledgeable. “That was the vote on – ”

“The Unwin allocation, my Lord.”

_The Unwin allocation?_

Gideon smiles courteously. “Is that why you have visited us, my Lord? Marquess Cardoc did inform us that Miss Unwin was under your protection – has he perhaps become engaged? We are quite prepared to transfer the funds from your guardianship to whomever the lucky gentle is.”

Roxy’s throat tightens. “Alas,” she manages. “I do not believe Miss Unwin has yet found his life partner.”

“Ah, well. Perhaps life yet has that in store for him.” A moment’s pause, and then, cautiously: “I trust that there have been no issues found with those funds?”

“None at all,” Roxy says hastily. _Except that I did not know they existed. Any more than I knew my own shares existed._

“We have heard nothing from your banker – in fact I may say that your banker communicates with us but rarely – so naturally we have assumed…”

“Quite so.” Roxy gulps, wishing she had something to hand to wet her throat.

“Of course, his advanced age might be a factor. No doubt his heir will soon take the reins.”

 _Advanced age_ – “You don’t mean old Blackwell?”

Gideon pauses. “Does my Lord mean to say she has changed bankers? We would be happy to direct – ”

“No!” Roxy controls her tone with an effort. “That is to say, I was simply… surprised… to learn that Blackwell still handles my accounts personally. Of course, one is always touched by loyalty.”

“Of course,” Gideon murmurs. “And if there are any instructions which my Lord has issued that she might wish to, er, confirm…”

“Not at all.” Roxy tugs at her cravat. “Everything is most satisfactory, Gideon.”

Gideon allows herself to relax slightly. “Then, my Lord, how may we be of assistance?”

Roxy doesn’t let out a breath in relief for having passed this dangerous topic. Nor does she draw a breath in to fortify her for the game ahead. It’s the best way she can think of to wrangle the information she needs out of a member of the notoriously tight-lipped legal profession. But it may yet backfire on her, and then what will she do?

_What will you do if you don’t try? You’ve never been rolling in options._

Only one night in a notorious hell, and Roxy’s become a confirmed gambler. It would be amusing if it weren’t so worrying.

Nevertheless, she meets Gideon’s gaze directly. “I wish to sell my shares.”

Gideon blinks. “My Lord,” she says diplomatically. “Surely you understand… Kingsman shares are not exactly…”

“At once,” Roxy says, with studied nonchalance.

“But my Lord… _why_ …?”

Gideon must be rattled, to so directly question her theoretical employer and nominal social superior. Roxy shrugs, trying to look bored. “I require the ready funds. You comprehend.”

“Kingsman shares cannot be converted to ready funds. They are not shares listed on the market, my Lord. You hold them by right of inheritance, but you have no individual right of sale. They can only be reabsorbed by the collective – the other shareholders.”

Roxy shrugs again. “Then let them raise the blunt. The purchaser matters not.”

“You cannot take this action unilaterally.” Gideon seems to be gathering herself. “It’s never been done. It’s – it would require a vote. A full vote.”

“Then call one.”

“I cannot.”

“ _I_ am calling one.”

“My Lord – forgive me – _you_ cannot. You do not yet have your majority. Your shares are still under the conservatorship of Marquess Cardoc.”

“Then let Marquess Cardoc call for the vote.”

Now it’s Gideon’s turn to look like she wants a drink, and not just to wet her throat.  “With respect, my Lord, my purview does not extend to such. If you wish Marquess Cardoc to act on your behalf, you must apply to him directly.” Gideon regains some of her poise, and inclines her head. “Fortunately, he is in Town.”

 _Yes_. Roxy calls on everything her parents had ever taught her to keep the triumph out of her face and voice. “Then I will wait upon him directly,” she says sweetly. “What did you say his address was?”


	9. A Noble Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy learns who is behind his current predicament - Lord Harry Hart, the fine Alpha noble he's been dreaming of for the past few months.

After seven nights in a rocking carriage, and a lifetime of nights before that spent on hard mattresses – even the almost luxurious cottage at Morton Crescent only had a small mattress filled with straw and chaff – the soft bedding in this strange house is uncomfortable. Despite his exhaustion, Eggsy tosses and turns, unable to find a comfortable position. It doesn't help that there's a sweet, almost rancid, odor coming from the pillows. It smells of sex, and worse, it reminds him of Dean after he'd spend a night or two away after some big score, no doubt between the thighs of a whore.

Is that what this place is? A whorehouse? He doesn't want to think so, not after the heartfelt avowals of honor from Merlin, Tristan and Bedivere. Eggsy tries to convince himself that the last occupant of this room simply hadn't cared too about their personal hygiene and the housekeeper is a scent-blind beta. 

He gets out of the bed and ignores the chilly floor as he goes over to the window and pulls back the curtains. The waning moon is hanging low in the sky, just barely above the tree line, which means it's only a few hours until dawn. There's enough light from the moon to illuminate the room, allowing Eggsy to find a jar of spills on the fireplace mantle. He uses one to take a light from the fireplace embers and touches it to a branch of candles. 

Eggsy could go exploring, but he finds himself oddly reluctant at the thought. He's in a strange house, and while his nose only scents a pair of female Betas, the housekeeper and maid he'd been hastily introduced to on arrival, he doesn't know if he can trust them yet. Better to stay on this side of the locked door.

He looks around the room – it's larger than any bedroom he's ever slept in – perhaps as large as the room that Chester King occupies at Morton Crescent. Besides the vast, curtained bed, there's a pair of wingback chairs on either side of a round table in front of the window, and a small desk and chair in the far corner of the room. That interests Eggsy greatly, and he carefully sets down the candle and tries to open it. To his relief, it's unlocked, and better yet, fully stocked with writing paper, ink and quills.

Eggsy needs to write to his mum to let her know where he is, and if he tells her he's safe and not to worry, well, that might not be a complete lie. Eggsy also wants to write to Lord Roxy, to let her know that Old Stinkbottom is up to something. The last time they'd talked, after Sunday services the week before he'd left Morton Crescent, she'd confessed to worrying about the financial state of affairs and had hoped Eggsy could share some information. Eggsy had been torn – Lord Roxy is his friend, someone he trusts and admires and hopes one day to serve – but he's still Lord Chester's confidential secretary and owes him some amount of loyalty. 

But the truth had been that he knew little about the financial state of Morton Crescent. Most of that work is handled by Andrew, Lord Chester's senior secretary. Lord Roxy had been so downcast that Eggsy wanted to promise her that he'd try to find out something, but they'd been interrupted by his mum and Daisy.

By the time Eggsy finishes with the two letters and seals them, the moon has fully set and the sky is brightening with the coming dawn. He finds the purse that Dagonet had provided – at Old Stinkbottom's request – and takes out the last few pence, hoping that it'll be enough for postage back to Morton Crescent.

Of course, now that it's morning, Eggsy is exhausted. The household is quiet still, and the bed, despite the unpleasant odor, is calling to him. He pulls the curtains shut and climbs back under the covers; his mind finally letting his body take rest.

Eggsy feels like he's only been sleeping for a few minutes when the rattle of curtain rings and bright sunlight wakens him.

"G'afternoon, sir." It's the young maid, and she gives him a clumsy curtsy.

Eggsy rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Afternoon?"

"Aye, yes. It's just chimed noon. Master Merlin, he said to apologise about awaking you, sir. But he needs ta see ya." 

As Eggsy's sleepy brain processes the words, he realizes something. "The door – I'd locked it last night."

The maid shrugs. "Mistress Crane, the housekeeper, gave me the keys, told me to use them."

Eggsy doesn't like that and in fact, he won't have it. Even at home, his mum knows to respect a locked door. They'd spent too many years at the whim of Dean and his demands not to cherish the value of a good iron lock. "Well, I don't want anyone coming in here without my permission."

"I gots to do my job. You can't stop me."

Eggsy is more than up for a fight. "I certainly can. The key."

"Sir?" The maid stands there, looking dumb.

"I'll have the key to this room." Eggsy holds out his hand, fingers wagging in an imperious gesture. He might be Omega, but he's no one's doormat.

"I can't do that, sir. The keys belong to the housekeeper."

"I don't care. Give me the key, now. Or I'll take it off you and you'll have to explain to Master Merlin how you got bruised."

The girl's lip quivers as she pulls the keyring from her pocket and takes off one of the keys. 

Eggsy snatches it out of her hand. "Now, please go."

"You don't want me ta help ya dress?"

"No, please." Eggsy can't imagine a life where he'd ever need the service of a maid to help dress him. Not unless he starts living a life out of one of Lord Roxy's novels.

"I'll go, then, sir. But I'll be telling Mistress Crane that you took the key." The maid is a bit pugnacious with that, as if she expects the housekeeper to demand the key back. That will not happen.

Eggsy washes up – the maid had left a pitcher of warm water at the basin – but he longs for a full bath. It's been more than a week since he's bathed and he feels unclean. His impending heat isn't helping matters, either. If he's on schedule, it'll be another two days before it hits. All the more reason to have the key. Eggsy wonders if Merlin will agree to send away the housekeeper and maid for the week. He can fend for himself, but he'd rather not have to deal with a pair of strange Betas during his _extremis_.

His satchel had been left by the wardrobe, and Eggsy takes out the last of his clean smallclothes. There's a full-length mirror in the room and after he puts on his breeches and waistcoat, Eggsy takes a good look at himself. The experience is disorienting; there are a few mirrors in Morton Crescent, but most of them are in the bedrooms, so Eggsy rarely gets the chance to use one. He frowns at the rumpled state of his attire and his wayward and greasy hair. But there is nothing he can do about it now.

Eggsy shoves his feet into his shoes, puts the key to the room in his waistcoat pocket, and takes a deep breath. He has a feeling that what's waiting for him on the other side of the door is more than just a bald Scotsman.

Which reminds him, he still has the man's knife. Eggsy retrieves it from his bag and tucks it into his stocking. It looks ridiculous, but frankly, he doesn't care.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry paces the length of the small salon, a room he is all too familiar with, and quite frankly, he is revolted. "I thought you told the housekeeper to clean this place up?"

Merlin, who'd insisted on accompanying him – for propriety's sake – looks around the room and grimaces. "I certainly did tell the woman to clean out all the gee-gaws and cheap tarty decorations, but it doesn't seem that she'd obeyed orders."

Harry had never given much thought to the staff at this place. Since the war ended, he'd housed a succession of mistresses here. As long as the rooms had been kept clean and the linens fresh, he hadn't cared about the decor. He'd been generous with his kept Omegas, providing a budget for the upkeep of the house, including redecorating, as well as pin money for personal expenses. And when each of those relationship had ended, Harry had sent Merlin with a generous purse and see the lads settled elsewhere.

But looking around now, Harry finds nothing satisfactory. "This whole place will need to be redone. Even if Eggsy's only staying here for a short while, only until he accepts my suit, I don't want him to feel like he's living in a whore's house."

Merlin, of course, has an opinion and doesn't hesitate to share it. "This _is_ a whore's house, Harry. Ye've been keeping your whores here for years."

Harry just rolls his eyes at the obvious.

Merlin ignores that rather juvenile behavior and just continues. "It's a good thing that I saw how little the housekeeper had done when I arrived with Eggsy last night. I've already made arrangements with yer Mayfair staff to have fresh linens and bedding delivered from yer own airing cupboards. I strongly recommend that ye replace the housekeeper and maid – bring in someone proper. Someone who'll protect the lad, give him some consequence."

Harry agrees. "I should have thought of this before."

"Ye should have thought of a lot of things _before_ , but when ye think with yer knot, ye're not really thinking." Merlin's tone is laconic, but his words are sharp as daggers. "Just because ye want the lad as yer mate doesn't give ye the right to ignore the proprieties. It was my mistake in not making certain that this house was truly ready, but it is yers in that ye didn't even think about where to keep the lad. If ye want my advice – "

"Which you'll give me even if I don't want it."

"Ye'll send over Mistress Olwyn and a few maids and pot boys to get this place in shape. Ye'll also have her hire a personal maid for Eggsy from a proper Omega agency. Eggsy deserves better than some daft lass with dirty ankles who's never worked above stairs in a noble household."

"That is actually quite an excellent idea. I do believe that Mistress Olwyn is related to the steward at Morton Crescent, good Dagonet."

"She is his sister."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course you would know that."

"Of course I would. I'd hired her for ye, after all. I believe she stays in touch with Dagonet, so it's possible that she might even know of the lad." Merlin gives Harry a slightly sour look. "Just so yer aware, I might have dropped a word into her ear this morning about coming over here to take care of the place - and the lad - for a while. She'll put this house to rights within a day."

"Of that, I have no doubt." Harry has trusted Mistress Olwyn with his Mayfair residence for years and has had no complaints - even about Merlin's overreaching. He returns to his pacing, impatient to see his intended. He knows that Eggsy had still been asleep when they'd arrived, and if he is a more patient man, he would leave his calling card and return on the morrow. 

But Harry Hart is not a patient man, not when it comes to his future _Arlodhes_. 

There's a light tap on the door and Harry nods to Merlin, who says "Enter." It's the housekeeper. 

"The boy is awake and coming down." Her tone is sour. "Just so ya know, he's a troublemaker and was most disrespectful to me niece."

Harry raises an eyebrow, but allows Merlin deal with this unexpected problem.

"What do ye mean?"

The housekeeper crosses her arms over her impressive bosom and elaborates. "He demanded that me niece give him the key to his bedroom. Said he'd take it from her if she didn't give it to him. Frightened my girl, she being so tender and sweet and all." The woman is puffed up like an angry goose. "I won't have that in my house."

Harry finally speaks. "Well, then it is a good thing this isn't your house, madam, but mine. Miss Unwin is my guest, not yours. It is his comfort and happiness that should be paramount within these walls, something that you should have understood without explanation. For years, you have enjoyed a well-paid and undemanding employment, but it is now at an end. You and your niece shall vacate this property before sunset."

The housekeeper now looks like a caught fish, all gasping breath and horror. Merlin rolls his eyes and escorts the woman from the room. 

Harry lets out a breath and finds himself quite pleased. Not at the staffing situation, but at Eggsy's spine. He had suspected that Eggsy was not some pretty Omega with die-away airs, but a young man of great personal strength. Of course Eggsy is entitled to his privacy and has every right to ensure it. Of course, a gentleman shouldn't bully the staff, but it's not a maid's place to refuse to give over the key.

The doors open with all the drama that Merlin's Scottish heart possesses and Harry immediately becomes the _Arlodh_ of Tintagel, both lord and supplicant.

"My lord, may I present to you Miss Gary Unwin, Omega of Morton Crescent, and known to his friends and family as 'Eggsy'."

Harry holds his breath as Merlin steps away from the door, revealing the object of Harry's obsession. Eggsy is perhaps even more handsome than Harry had remembered. His shoulders seem broader, his jawline stronger, his eyes sharper. There's strength in his gaze, which bodes well for Harry's plans.

Then something changes – Eggsy recognizes him and grows wary. Harry can scent it. 

"Lord Hart." 

The boy licks his lips and the predator inside Harry wants to pounce. But Harry remembers his manners, remembers just how disappointed his sire would be if he offered any disrespect to his future _Arlodhes_. " Miss Unwin, you will have to forgive me for barging in so early in the day."

"I do?" Eggsy's voice is quiet, but his words are like stones in a still pond.

Harry feels like he's just been slapped. Merlin, damn him, sniggers. He takes a deep breath. "Well, no – of course not. You can choose not to forgive me, but you see –"

"It's all right, I suppose. Master Merlin says that you're responsible for this." The boy gestures around him. "That I'm here, instead of warming Charlie King's bed."

Harry can't do anything but nod. 

"But I guess I'll be warming your bed in exchange for that service. This is where you keep your whores, isn't it? I can smell the sex in the mattress."

Harry turns to look at Merlin, to get some kind of guidance. Merlin just shakes his head.

Eggsy reaches down and pulls out a long dagger from his stocking. "You ain't gonna heat rape me, Lord Hart. No matter how posh or fancy you may be." Eggsy looks like he's about to cry. "I'll kill you first."

Harry recognizes that blade. He'd given it to Merlin when Merlin first swore fealty to Harry. A part of him is outraged by the betrayal, but another part of him rejoices at the honor Merlin is showing to Eggsy. He takes a deep breath and tries to regain some measure of control over this conversation, and takes refuge in formality. "Miss Unwin, I am not here to offer you insult or violence, and I am dreadfully ashamed that my efforts to provide a safe refuge for you are woefully insufficient."

Eggsy nods. "You aren't planning to put that bed upstairs to use?"

"No, my dear. I would not dishonor you like that."

"Not my experience that posh Alphas would care about some lower class Omega."

" Miss Unwin, firstly, I would never do as you're suggesting - the very idea of rape is appalling. Secondly, you are not some lower class Omega. You are a fine young man of good lineage. And more than that, you are your sire's son."

Eggsy stares at him, his expression both fierce and curious. "You knew my da, too?"

"Of course I did. Lee was a man of great heart and courage – much like his son. And he was my friend." Harry feels rather helpless. He's never had to convince anyone of his worth, and he so desperately wants the approval of this young Omega.

Eggsy lowers the knife, although he doesn't put it down. "Sorry for insulting you. It's just that I've never been kidnapped before."

"And I'm sorry for having to do so. Lord Chester is not a trustworthy man, and he'd made some rather disturbing comments about you when I had dined with him at Morton Crescent. Given how much I owe your father, I became concerned, and needed to take action before anything happened to you." The lie trips easily off Harry's tongue. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to tell Eggsy that he'd purchased his safety with Charlie King's gambling debts.

Eggsy gives him a cool look. "Most people would think about approaching my mum first, or talking to me directly. Letting me know that I was in danger. Let me make my own decisions."

That cool look turns icy cold when Eggsy adds, "Rather than kidnapping me."

Harry looks back at Merlin, but his friend offers no help, keeping his eyes on whatever book he's reading, like a proper duenna.

"And if you had such respect and affection for my da, how come you never paid your respects to my mum? The war's been over for two years. Did you try to speak with her when you visited at Morton Crescent? Did you even think about us?" Eggsy is downright angry. 

Harry is speechless, but enthralled. Yes, his future _Arlodhes_ has spine and wit.

"I think you're not much better than Lord Chester. You tell yourself you're saving some poor, helpless Omega, that you're doing a good deed in memory of your friend. But you're just another rich, poncy Alpha taking what you want without any consideration for what _I_ might want." Eggsy's panting at the end of this extraordinary speech, and he looks near tears.

Searching for a way to justify his actions, Harry says the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm only trying to court you!"

"What?" Eggsy looks at Harry like he'd just lost his mind. "What do you mean, _court me?"_

Silently cursing at his utter clumsiness, Harry rushes over to the table where he'd placed a package on his arrival. "I had hoped you would look favorable upon my suit, Miss Unwin." He offers it to Eggsy, but Eggsy doesn't take it. 

"I don't understand, court? As in marriage?"

Merlin doesn't bother to hide his snicker; Eggsy, thankfully, doesn't notice.

"Yes, my dear. Marriage." Harry offers the package again, impatient to get past these formalities. "This is my first courting gift."

Eggsy backs away from him and collapses ungracefully on the settee. "Lord Harry Hart is courting me? How is this even possible?"

Harry goes down on one knee and places the gift next to Eggsy. "It's possible because you are the loveliest Omega I have ever had the good fortune to meet."

Eggsy shakes his head. "I must be dreaming."

Harry takes Eggsy's hand, and to his delight, Eggsy doesn't pull away. "No, you are not dreaming, my dearest."

"Don't call me that."

"What?"

"Dearest, I am not your dearest, or your darling, or your anything." Now Eggsy pulls his hand away.

Harry bows his head. "I understand. I am moving too quickly. You see, I but am a simple soldier and accustomed to swift action and resolution. I am not made to gently court anyone, least of all a gently bred young Omega like yourself."

Eggsy is silent for too long and Harry has to sneak a peek at his face. The boy looks torn – not with fear or disgust, but between curiosity and laughter. That is a good sigh, but perhaps it's time for a little plain speaking. "I'm over-playing it, aren't I?"

Eggsy nods. "A bit, but I think that maybe you're sincere?"

"I am. I know it sounds strange, a bit too much like a novel, but – "

"I like novels." Eggsy murmurs and bites his lip.

Harry can't help but smile. "I do, too." 

In the background, Merlin snorts.

Harry meets Eggsy's eyes and they both grin. The young man's smile is like sunshine and Harry can't help but feel that maybe he isn't messing this up too much. "When I saw you at Morton Crescent, I was very impressed."

"Why?" There's none of the hostility Eggsy had shown the last time he asked that question. Instead, there is kind of a breathless curiosity.

"I've known Chester King for many years. Our association isn't one that I relish, but I find him – on occasion – to be useful. He is a difficult man with terrible habits and cruel temper. Watching you work with him, your unfailing grace in the face of his unpleasantness, made me take notice. And I found myself drawn to you." Harry lets out a light laugh. "It does seem a bit ridiculous, but it is the truth."

"You say you're wanting to court me. That your intentions are honorable."

"They are. I know it really seems unbelievable, considering everything. But I have only the most honorable intentions towards you." Still kneeling, Harry gestures to the packages on the settee. "In a few ways – not many – I am an Alpha who respects tradition, and I have brought you gifts that try to convey something of the Alpha that I am." 

Eggsy still makes no move to take the gift. 

"And to prove the truth of my words," Harry reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a long, velvet covered jewelry box, "Miss Unwin, I would be honored if you accepted this and wear it with pride."

"What is it?" 

Harry opens the box, displaying a link bracelet with rubies and pearls, framing onyx cameos of leaping harts. "It is my carrier's courting bracelet. My sire had given it to him to signify the purity of his intentions." Harry doesn't mention that his _grandsire_ had originally commissioned it for the Omega that he'd kidnapped out of a church on his wedding day.

Eggsy takes the box and stares at the contents. "It's beautiful, Lord Hart, and very fitting for a noble Omega."

"It's very fitting for _you_." Harry doesn't know how else to make it clear that Eggsy is as noble an Omega as any of the pups born to a title.

Eggsy looks up, blinking like a startled deer. "You really do mean what you've said. That you want to court me."

"I do. Will you let me?"

Eggsy bites his lip again and Harry finds that his control is not what it's supposed to be. When Eggsy turns dark red, though, Harry's desire becomes concern. "What is wrong, my dear?" 

"It's almost my time," Eggsy whispers, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Harry knows that, Merlin had mentioned it more than once even though it is not something to be spoken of in polite society. He stands up and moves a few steps away. "I am … aware of that."

Eggsy closes the box and hands it back to him. "I don't think I should make a decision about something so important until it's over."

Harry thinks he understands what Eggsy is trying to say without dying from mortification. "I will not touch you, Miss Unwin. Not until we are wedded, _if_ we are wedded." It hurts to add that qualification, but Harry knows it's essential. "You have my oath on that. And you have my oath that I will not return until you have sent word that you are ready to see me again."

"Thank you."

"Regardless, I would hope that you might accept my other gifts."

"You are too generous, my lord."

"No, my dear Miss Unwin, I am not generous enough."

Eggsy makes no move to take the package. "Eggsy, please – call me Eggsy. The only person who calls me Miss Unwin is Lord Chester, and I'd rather not think of you and Old Stinkbottom at the same time."

Harry can't conceal a grin at Eggsy's nickname for Chester. "I can understand that, and I would be honored if you would call me Harry."

Eggsy looks at him from under those outrageously long eyelashes. "Thank you, Harry."

From the corner, it sounds like Merlin's muttered, "At last."

When Eggsy smiles, Harry again gestures to the box he'd brought.

Merlin closes the book he's pretending to read with an audible snap. "Just open the gift, lad, before Harry has kittens."

Harry gives his best friend a hard stare. Merlin ignores it, of course. 

Eggsy finally picks up the box. "Will you sit, Lord Hart?"

"Harry."

Eggsy blushes, "Ah, yes – Harry. And please, sit." 

Harry does and watches with barely concealed impatience as Eggsy unties the string that holds closed the decorative paper he'd wrapped the gift, revealing a time-worn and sadly stained leather case. Once, in Harry's grandsire's long-ago youth, the leather had been red and gilded in bright gold, outlining an embossed leaping hart. 

Harry feels the need to explain. "I know it doesn't look like much, but it's something that has been very important to me."

"That's what courting gifts are, right? Supposed to show your intended something about you, the type of Alpha you are." Eggsy's voice is soft and full of wonder. He opens the case, to reveal a rather worn chess board. 

Harry finally gives into the need to intervene, just a little. "If you slide the lids open on either side, you'll find the pieces.

Eggsy does as instructed and looks puzzled; of course, Harry is not surprised. This is a puzzling gift.

"My grandsire gave the set to me for my twelfth birthday, it had been his since _his_ childhood and he'd taken it with him everywhere." Harry smiles at the memory. "My grandsire was something of a noble rogue. When he had been a young man, he was pirate." At Eggsy's shocked look, Harry explains, "Well, technically a privateer, since he had Letters of Marque from King George. He sailed all over the world before he founded Kingsman, a private company of intelligence agents - ." Harry shakes his head; this is not the time to share stories about his beloved and highly disreputable grandsire. "He gave it to me and taught me how to play."

"Will you teach me?" 

"I would be delighted." Harry picks up one of the tiny pieces – a rook. "The might be the only piece that was part of the original set. Whenever a piece would get lost, my grandsire would carve a replacement. And I would do the same. That is why none of the pieces look like they belong together. I can tell you stories for almost every piece in the set." He puts the rook away.

Eggsy looks at him with wide eyes, as if he's awestruck. "I would like that … Harry. Very much." When Eggsy's stomach rumbles, the young man turns bright red, again. "I'm sorry."

"Please, don't apologize. I barged in without giving you the chance to even break your fast." Harry's about to ring for the housekeeper, only to realize that he'd dismissed her. "And I must apologize again – I have rather upset the household arrangements and have fired both the housekeeper and maid."

"Good." Eggsy is fierce. "I didn't like the maid. I locked the door to my room, but she barged it as if she had every right. And then she refused to give me the key. I wasn't a gentleman when I threatened to take it from her, but I can't have strange people just coming into my room. Not without me giving permission."

"I will be sending my own housekeeper to set this place to rights. I believe you will like Mistress Olwyn."

"Is she Omega?"

"Yes, and I will make sure that any of the staff she brings with her is Omega as well."

"Thank you. I know I'm not some dainty, high-born Omega to be cosseted and protected, but it being so close to my time…" Eggsy bites his lip and just keeps blushing.

"My darling, you should be cosseted and protected, and should be absolutely secure in your own home." Harry cannot help the endearment, but this time, Eggsy doesn't object to it. "May I leave you here with Merlin while I fetch you a repast?"

"You?"

"I am not some useless fribble." Harry jokes. 

"No, of course not. I didn't mean to insult you, it's just that you're Lord Hart – you shouldn't be fetching meals for the likes of me."

Harry sighs. It's going to take a bit to get Eggsy to see his worth, see that he should be waited on hand and foot. "It is my pleasure to do so." He adds, "And I hope, someday, it will be my right, to care for you in all things."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Eggsy is utterly bemused. Not in his wildest imaginings did he think that Lord Hart would be the Alpha behind his kidnapping. And that Lord Hart had kidnapped him to protect him from Lord Chester.

And the most amazing thing of all, that Lord Hart wants to formally court him.

To marry him.

After Lord Hart and Master Merlin leave, Eggsy retreats to his bedroom and locks the door, even though he is now alone in the house. Mistress Crane and her niece had departed in a great huff while Lord Hart had personally prepared and served them nuncheon. The meal was surprisingly pleasant, especially once Master Merlin had stopped playing dragon and told Eggsy some amusing stories about Lord Hart.

_Harry._

Eggsy holds that name close; he whispers it in the silence of the room. Harry Hart sees him as an Omega of great value. Harry Hart is impressed by him. Harry Hart has come to court him.

Harry Hart wants to marry him. The thought keeps echoing in Eggsy's mind, like a clock chiming midnight, or more like the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night.

This is better than the plot of any novel Eggsy's ever read. There is nothing to compare. The great and powerful Lord Hart has been brought to a stammering courtship by a little nobody like Eggsy Unwin. It feels too unreal.

But it _is_ real. Eggsy traces his fingers over the worn leather lid of Harry's chess set and imagine the two of them playing on a winter evening in front of the fire. At first, Harry would be kind and gentlemanly and perhaps let Eggsy win because he doesn't want Eggsy to feel badly.

Or maybe Eggsy would lose and Harry would demand a forfeit. A kiss and then something more.

Eggsy squirms in the chair. He's too close to his heat to be thinking such warm thoughts.

But oh, they are nice thoughts. Lord Hart, Harry, is truly the Alpha that Eggsy had been dreaming of. 

It's not that Lord Hart is the only eligible and highborn Alpha that Eggsy has ever met. Charlie King might be a highborn Alpha, but he is certainly no one that Eggsy would consider an eligible mate. And then there's Lord Roxy, who Eggsy loves and adores, but the thought of mating with her has always felt wrong. On paper, she's the perfect Alpha, smart and dedicated to the estate and to the people who look to her as the _Arlodh_ , and Eggsy admires her. But coupling with her would be almost unnatural, as if they are siblings. 

And Eggsy suspects that Lord Roxy feels the same. They've been in close company when Eggsy's been arcing into his heat and she doesn't react, her scent doesn't change. Around him, Lord Roxy seems as if she's a Beta. 

But not Lord Hart. As soon as Eggsy had walking into the parlor, he could scent the Alpha's desire. It hadn't been unpleasant, not like Lord Charlie's, which always reminds Eggsy of horse piss. No, Lord Hart's scent makes Eggsy tingle and want to breathe it in right from the source. It's like good leather and polished steel and a river after the spring rains.

Eggsy could come to love that scent. He could come to love Lord Hart. 

The Alpha had seemed so unsure of himself, even from the first, when Eggsy had refused to accept the pro forma apology he'd given for arriving without warning. Eggsy doesn't know where he got the courage to treat a high-born Alpha like that, to push his own opinions and position forward, to take Lord Hart to task for not calling on his mum when the Alpha had been at Morton Crescent. 

And Lord Hart hadn't blustered or told Eggsy to calm down, to behave like a proper Omega should behave. No, he seemed to relish Eggsy's fierceness.

Eggsy is still not fully sure that he should believe that Lord Hart had kidnapped him to protect him from Lord Chester. It seems so elaborate, so over-the-top, so unnecessary. Why wouldn't Lord Hart just tell him? Or if he wouldn't deign to speak to Eggsy without a proper introduction, why not use Dagonet as a messenger? He certainly must know the steward, since Dagonet had served as Lord Percival's batman during the war, and Lord Percival had been part of Lord Hart's company.

And yet, when Eggsy plays through the events, how Lord Chester had set him up with false correspondence to Earl Hesketh, how he'd seemed so unconcerned about the Letter of Instruction that he's let Eggsy draft it unaided, how Old Stinkbottom sprung this trip on Eggsy without warning or preparation, Lord Hart's actions become plausible. 

Heroic, even.

A clatter distracts Eggsy from his thoughts and he goes to look out the window. Master Merlin has returned and he's leading a coach _and_ a laden wagon. It seems that Lord Harry has kept his promise.

Eggsy goes to meet the new arrivals at the front door, feeling both honored and extremely awkward when the woman Merlin introduces as Mistress Olwyn, curtseys to him. He thanks her and steps out of the way as a dozen maids and footmen erupt from the carriage and the trailing wagon. 

"Ye best let them get to work." Merlin offers. "Like Harry promised, they'll set this place to rights before sunset."

Eggsy nods, feeling utterly overwhelmed again. "I keep asking myself why? Why would such a noble Alpha as Lord Hart go to such an effort over little Eggsy Unwin? Why would he want to court and marry me?"

Merlin smiles, as if he's been expecting this question. "It's a simple thing, Eggsy. He likes ye. And he admires ye. He likes how ye didn't back down to Lord Stinkbottom. He likes, even more, how ye don't back down to him. I've known Harry Hart a very long time, I've seen him do things that would confound ye. They still confound _me_. But I've never seen him behave in any manner less than honorably."

Eggsy nods. "He's a strange one. Is he always so clumsy with his courting?"

"I don't think Harry's ever courted an Omega before. He'll go about in Society, but he's never shown any Omega any particular attention. I had always figured he'd marry in his dotage and get a cub and then promptly pop off, to his Omega's convenience." Merlin gives Eggsy a sly look. "I never figured that he'd let his emotions get involved."

Eggsy finds himself breathless at the thought. "He is a good man? Truly?"

"Yes, Eggsy. He is, one of the best you'll ever meet."

They head towards the kitchen, which seems to be the only space in the house that hasn't been overtaken by Mistress Olwyn and her staff. The room is warm and comfortable, and it's clear that this had been Mistress Crane's domain. Without asking, Master Merlin makes a pot of tea and locates the biscuit tin.

"Here ye go, lad." 

Eggsy takes a shortbread and toys with it a bit before taking a bite and then downing it with a sip of tea.

"Eggsy." 

"Yes, Master Merlin?"

"Ach, just Merlin, please." When Eggsy nods, Merlin reaches into his coat and pulls out a packet of papers sealed with red wax. "Harry probably should have led with this, rather than with his clumsy attempt at courting. I'll give ye some privacy to read, but if ye have any questions, come and find me and I'll answer the best I can."

Merlin leaves Eggsy with the tea, the biscuits, and Harry's mysterious gift. Eggsy stares at the paper, the fine cream linen stock glowing warmly in the kitchen light. The blob of wax looks a bit too much like blood for Eggsy's comfort, but he doesn't let that put him off. He opens the packet, breaking the seal.

There are several folded pages, bound with a ribbon, but what catches Eggsy's attention is the envelope with his name written in a fine, strong hand. This, too, is sealed, but this seal bears the imprint of a leaping hart - Harry's insignia. Eggsy retrieves a flat knife and carefully slits the envelope open, so to preserve this little - but tangible - symbol of Harry Hart.

If the Harry Hart that Eggsy had met this afternoon had been the epitome of clumsy courting, this letter paints a picture of a different man, one who is both the archetype of the noble Alpha that Eggsy had dreamed of and a man who doesn't shy away from his mistakes.

_Dear Eggsy,_

_I was raised to be a man whose honor was conveyed through deeds, not words; however, I have failed in both my deeds and my words. I realize now that kidnapping you - even with the best of intentions - was wrong, despite what I had thought to be the most noble of excuses._

_I hope that you will consider my offer to court you to be one made from deepest sincerity. I did not speak any falsehood when I told you that I find you admirable and lovely, and that my feelings are truly engaged._

_However, I would be the cad that you probably think I am if I continued along this path. You must never feel as if you were coerced into accepting my courtship, or worse, felt that I had trapped you and made sure you had no alternative. I do want you as my bride, my mate, my _Arlodhes_ , but I want your happiness more than any of those things._

_To do my best to ensure your happiness, I have to give you a choice. And that means I have to tell you a little bit more about your father, about Kingsman, and about the world we've built. The world I hope you'll choose to inhabit with me._

_You know that your father died saving Percival Morton's life and perhaps you know that he saved the lives of others as well on that terrible day - including my own. But what you don't know is that your father was about to become a member of an exclusive company of military intelligence officers, the Kingsman, a group founded by my grandfather, and since the colonial wars in America, lead by yours truly. Lee Unwin had served as Percival Morton's aide until Captain Morton proposed Lee for full membership. Shortly before that promotion was to take effect, your father sacrificed his life, protecting Captain Morton and the others present, when he broke cover and charged at a French sniper._

_After the war ended, the surviving Kingsman had agreed that your father, who was only a few hours from being confirmed as a full member of the company, would have been entitled to a share of the wealth that Kingsman has built over the years. An allotment had been set aside for you and your carrier, money that has been accumulating interest for the last half-dozen years. Had he lived, you and your carrier would have had a more than comfortable existence, and in this, as well as the ways you had pointed out, I have failed you. I should have ascertained that you received your legacy from Kingsman, that you and your family had all the comfort that any Kingsman's family would be entitled to._

_The oversight is inexcusable and yet one more failure for which I seek your forgiveness. I would like to release these funds to you immediately, however the rules that govern such Kingsman accounts dictate that this wealth be managed by a Kingsman appointed trustee until your marriage, which would be Lord Morton when she reaches her majority. Until that time, the account is managed by yours truly._

_That puts me in a difficult position. I am now in control of both your physical person and your economic independence, a situation that will undoubtedly appear compromised and corrupt. While I cannot, as yet, give you your physical freedom, I can provide the economic independence you are so rightfully entitled to._

_To that end, I have placed separate funds, unrelated to the Kingsman money, an account in your own name. These funds are equal to, and supplement, the amount currently held in trust. You may use this money as you see fit, and if you wish, I will arrange to have you sponsored for a Season in London, complete with invitations to every event where an Omega of fine birth and breeding might meet a suitable Alpha and receive an honorable offer of courtship._

_I hope you find this to be a small measure of recompense for my selfish actions._

_Yours,_

_Harry Hart, Arlodh_

Eggsy reads the letter again, and then for a third time. He looks at the other papers - they are statements of account from Coutts, the same bank that Lord Chester uses, and then the trustee's reckoning. 

The amounts are staggering. 

The account that Lord Hart has just established has more money that Eggsy would ever expect to see in a dozen lifetimes. And the account is in _his_ name, not held in trust or for the benefit of, like the Kingsman accounts are. He could give a tenth of this to Lord Roxy and she'd be able to fix every cottage and the mill and the forge and put a new roof on the stables at Morton Crescent, _and_ have money to pay every servant's wage for the next five years. Adding that to the money his father would have been entitled to means that the Unwin family is downright well-to-do and set for generation. 

Eggsy puts down the papers and knows what he has to do. 

He finds Merlin in the back garden and says, "Tomorrow morning, I want to see Lord Hart, I want to go to him and tell him I will accept his suit."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	10. The Challenge

Roxy steps out of the hired carriage and straightens her waistcoat. The habits of a lifetime make her wince at the expense, but riding a horse through the streets of Mayfair would hardly convey the impression she wishes to. Nor would it allow her to arrive in the relatively immaculate order which she desires.

Sneaking out of her own estates, sneaking into Town, sneaking into a gambling hell – even visiting a solicitor is a reasonably low-profile activity. If Roxy chose, she could still turn tail, ride back to Morton Crescent, and – after a period of storms on the part of her uncle – everything would go back to normal.

Well, except for Eggsy Unwin. Whom Roxy might never see again. Or might see as an employee of Tilde’s establishment, after Cardoc has used him up and spat him back out.

Oh, and there’s also the little matter of Roxy’s self-respect. And proving her parents wrong about her. The Roxy who takes horse and goes back to Morton Crescent _doesn’t_ deserve her inheritance. And perhaps that shouldn’t weigh on her as much as Eggsy Unwin’s life. But Roxy is only Alpha, after all.

She mounts to the door and, for the second time that day, knocks upon a door.

The Beta male who opens it is no clerk, this time – he’s every inch the highly-trained butler, and might even pass old Dagonet’s muster. He betrays no sign of surprise at seeing a primly dressed Alpha at Marquess Cardoc’s door a full hour past the usual end of visiting-time. He merely inclines his head the perfect amount and utters a perfectly correct, “May I help you, my Lord?”

Good manners and good breeding have gotten Roxy this far; she sees no reason not to continue her attempt. Another card is produced and proffered. “Lord Morton, to see Marquess Cardoc.” The butler straightens, and Roxy can tell at once that she’s about to be rejected. “You may tell his Lordship that it is in regards to our mutual endeavor, Kingsman.”

This gives the butler pause. “I regret,” he equivocates. “The Marquess is occupied – ”

“Then I shall wait.” Roxy steps forward. The butler, perforce, falls back.

“I shall consult the Marquess,” he says. “If my Lord would wait, er, in this room – ”

Roxy allows herself to be herded into a parlor. She allows the door to close behind her. She decides to allow three minutes for the butler to perform his appointment. Then, by God, she is going to tear this house apart.

The door opens before the allotted time elapses. But the person who enters is not Marquess Cardoc. It’s a Beta male, but not the butler again: the butler, like a good servant, had been dressed in pristine white with red shirring, ruby and pearl being the Cardoc colors. This man is tall and bald, with a hooked nose that gives him a sinister air, but clothes of some quality in fashionable colors. He looks down that nose at Roxy and squints. “So ye’re young Morton?” He doesn’t sound impressed. “Not much of your sire about ye.”

Roxy feels her spine stiffening, both at the man’s tone and at the unaccustomed – and uncomfortable – sensation of being loomed over. “One prefers to keep one’s blood inside one’s body,” she says icily. “I am not acquainted with you, sir, but that is of no matter, as it is not you I am here to see. Please leave me. Or, if you would be so good, fetch Marquess Cardoc.”

“The Marquess is busy. If ye wish to discuss Kingsman, ye’ll discuss it with me.”

Roxy hesitates. “You’re part of Kingsman?”

“Ye seem surprised.”

The barely veiled insinuation there makes Roxy wince. “I learned of Kingsman’s existence only yesterday,” she says defensively. “Naturally I was not provided with a full list of its members.”

“Naturally.” The man frowns. “Yesterday? Surely yer parents…”

Roxy doesn’t flinch. She _doesn’t_.

The man continues studying her, then sighs. “What is it ye wish to know?”

“I wish to know – ” _many things._ Roxy swallows hard. Swallows back questions like, _did you know my parents? Can you tell me about them? What is Kingsman? Is it part of their legacy? What_ is _their legacy, really?_

“I wish to know,” Roxy says steadily, holding to what she knows to be her duty, “where Miss Eggsy Unwin is to be found, and what Marquess Cardoc has had to do with his – his deviation from his planned travel.” She takes a breath. “If you cannot answer that for me,” she says, “I will ask Marquess Cardoc directly. And I’ll advise you not to stand in my way.”

The man studies her. Roxy meets that gaze head-on.

“My name is Merlin,” the man says abruptly. “What did your parents call ye?”

She presses her lips together. “Roxanne. And that isn’t an answer to my question.”

The man – Merlin – gives her an ironic bow. “Miss Unwin is under Marquess Cardoc’s protection.”

“Miss Unwin is under _my_ protection,” she snaps. “And will remain so until or unless he tells me, of his own free will, that he wishes that to cease.”

Merlin pauses, then, to Roxy’s surprise, he inclines his head. “And that’s more than fair, isn’t it?” he muses aloud. “Honor and duty. Aye, ye’ve got ye’re sire’s blood in ye.”

Roxy refuses to be distracted by this. “Then, if you’ll conduct me to Marquess Cardoc – ”

Merlin holds up a hand. “Just a moment. I appreciate yer position, as I’ve said, but before I bring ye to the Marquess, there’s some necessary background – ”

A loud crashing noise shatters the silence. A moment later there’s another, deeper thudding noise. Roxy’s head whips immediately towards the door, as it had clearly come from elsewhere in the house. Merlin’s does as well: she can see as much out of the corner of her eye.

“What was that?” Merlin mutters, saving Roxy the trouble. “Stay here – ”

Roxy disregard this, following Merlin into the hallway so closely she almost treads on his feet. He moves unerringly past the staircase, passing through the entrance to the less public parts of the house. And there, at the end of the hallway, a pair of figures –

Something hot flashes behind Roxy’s eyeballs. It spreads to her brain, fizzing, and down to the tips of her fingers and toes. She hears something: a growl. After a moment, she realizes the one growling is she.

There’s a hand on her arm. It belongs to the Beta, Merlin. She flings it off without a second thought. She strides forward, hearing the echoes of her own boots flung back to her intermixed with the sound of her own anger.

The Alpha of the pair is obviously Marquess Cardoc; even if Roxy had not recognized his face from his recent visit to her uncle, his clothes and bearing would give him away, as would the heavy signet ring on his right hand. A hand he has dared to place around Eggsy Unwin’s wrist, even as he has dared to place himself within Eggsy’s personal space. Leaning over as if he wishes to be even closer and using every inch of his height to intimidate. Eggsy himself is half-pinned against the wall. Shards of pottery – the remains of a decorative vase – litter the floor. The table that once held the vase is on its side, speaking eloquently to a silent struggle. Eggsy’s half-sideways in what is clearly an attempt to escape, head turned away – staring now in astonishment at Roxy, who barely spares the brain cells to give him a look before she’s striding over and, with a strength she’d barely known she possessed, seizing Cardoc and flinging him half across the hall. He hits the far wall with a satisfying _thud_.

“You cad!” she roars.

“Lord Roxy?” Eggsy cries. “You’re here?”

“Of course I’m here,” she tells him, as comfortingly as she can manage. “All will be well now.”

Marquess Cardoc sputters something. To her left, she feels a looming presence – Merlin. He appears to be torn between trying to restrain Roxy, helping his master, and, for some reason, laughing.

Roxy pays him no heed, giving Eggsy instead a reassuring nod. Then she strides over to Cardoc. Shows _him_ what it’s liked to be loomed over, for a change.

“On your feet, sir,” she hisses. “How _dare_ you? Kidnap, rape – you’re a disgrace to your title and to the trust my sire apparently placed in you!”

Cardoc groans, stumbling to his feet. “Now see here, cub – ”

Roxy decks him. Thanks to Dagonet, she’s quite good at it. Also thanks to his training, she promptly follows it up with a sucker-punch while Cardoc is doubled over, and then, when Cardoc has crumpled to the floor, thoughtfully adds a kick to the ribs.

“Okay, lad, that’s enough,” Merlin says, putting a hand on her arm. “I’ll not argue ye had the right, but if ye’ll just listen for a moment – ”

“Listen?” Roxy’s fury knows no bounds. She’d been afraid, of course, when Eggsy had vanished, and more afraid when Tilde had hinted at Cardoc’s dark proclivities, but somehow, until this moment, she’d never actually believed that Eggsy might really have been outraged in that manner. Some inner reserve of decency, some naïve childish belief in the goodness of people – especially an Alpha who had served with her sire, with whom her sire had apparently gone into business, seemingly _trusted_ – had prevented her from really thinking –

“Lord Roxy, please,” Eggsy says. Roxy turns towards him, scanning him up and down. His hair is disarranged, as if someone has been playing with it, and his clothes are similarly rumpled. But he’s still dressed. Roxy lets out a sigh of relief.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Truly, I am,” he assures her. “Please, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Not here,” Roxy says. Behind Eggsy, still leaning against the wall, curious faces peep out of doors and around corners and through the banister of the stairs. The townhouse’s servants, drawn by the commotion, come to learn the gossip. The less they hear the better. Eggsy may still have a reputation to be saved.

Then another sound pulls Roxy around. Cardoc has regained his feet for the second time in as many minutes, and this time he’s balanced on his heels, face dark. “That’s enough of you,” he says dangerously.

Roxy squares her own stance. “No, sir, I think it is _you_ Miss Unwin has had enough of.”

“If you persist in behaving aggressively and making accusations – ”

The haughtiness of his tone snaps what little is left of Roxy’s self-restraint. “Allow me to save you the trouble.” Roxy draws off her glove and snaps it contemptuously at him. Cardoc catches it before it hits its face, but from the rush of indrawn breaths at her back, Cardoc will not be allowed to claim he’s misunderstood Roxy’s meaning. “Name your second, sir, and the weapon of your choosing. I know not how you have become lost to all righteousness, but now you are called to answer for your crimes. May God have mercy on your soul.”

* * *

“I haven’t seen a look like that on Harry’s face since – actually, since Miss Unwin told him he wouldn’t let Harry heat-rape him. What _have_ ye got in the drinking water there at Morton Crescent?” Merlin is laughing.

Roxy doesn’t see what’s so funny. “Miss Unwin should never have had to say anything of the kind,” she says coldly, pacing about the parlor to which she’s been re-escorted. “Nor should Cardoc have needed any reminding. Sir, I believe you are to be naming Cardoc’s choice of weapons, time, and location?”

Merlin waves a hand, still chuckling where he leans against the door to stop Roxy going back out and finishing what she’d started. “Not until yer second gets here to speak with me, lad. We’ll be doing this all by the book. Assuming ye won’t reconsider accepting Harry’s apology.”

“I do not consider that what I was offered constitutes an apology.”

Merlin is nodding. “Aye, he’s always tended more towards the ‘justification’ side of the scales. But ye must admit that King’s plans needed thwarting.”

Roxy grits her teeth. “The fact that my uncle was willing to _sell_ an Omega to repay debts does not excuse Cardoc being willing to _buy_ one. Whatever Cardoc may claim his intentions to have been, the deal was made. No amount of pretty words or courting jewelry changes the fact that he bought Miss Unwin like a pig at a fair.”

“If King would have sold Unwin to Harry, he’d’ve sold Unwin to any comer,” Merlin argues. “If Harry had said _no_ , Unwin would just have ended up in someone else’s hands.”

“Of course, how lackwitted of me,” Roxy says, still cold. “Certainly Cardoc had no other alternatives. Speaking to me on the topic, for example – ”

“To what point and purpose, lad?” Merlin shakes his head. “Harry – Cardoc – didn’t think ye could have done anything.”

Roxy lifts her chin. “Cardoc will shortly find out _exactly_ what I can do.”

Merlin’s exasperated sigh is quickly cut off at the sound of a the bell. He moves towards the front door – the butler is conspicuous by his absence, no doubt out retailing the story of Cardoc being caught with his hands up a gently-born Omega’s tunic and Roxy’s dramatic challenge – and, a moment later, ushers three newcomers into the parlor. One of them is recognizable from her morning’s adventures – Counsellor Gideon. The others are strangers.

“Here she is!” The first speaker is a female Alpha, tall, though not quite so tall as Tilde, and with hair and skin made even browner by the sun than Roxy’s. Her eyes sparkle, and she seems inclined to approve. “The one who dealt our king such a blow, the very foundations rattled! And all for the honor of a fair Omega! The heart flutters.”

“Be serious, Tristan,” her companion says. Another Alpha, male this time; the shortest in the room by half a foot, and the palest, too. A scar on his cheek mars what would otherwise be a face of some beauty. Careless dress and an unbrushed mop of dark hair complete the effect. He frowns at his companion, then turns to Roxy and bows. “It’s no more than any Alpha of honor would do. I quite salute you, Lord Morton.”

Roxy bows in return. “I am pleased to meet you, sir…?”

“Dunwell. A mere barony, I’m afraid. And my friend here is Earl Aberlundy.”

“But you should call me Tristan,” Aberlundy – Tristian – finishes. “I’m here to serve as your second, young Morton.”

“Hold hard,” Dunwell objects. “I thought we agreed that I would take that position.”

“We certainly did _not_.”

“The insult was offered to Miss Unwin!”

“And the person actually _fighting_ is Lord Morton. My debt to Percival – ”

“Knights, please,” Merlin says, sounding long-suffering. He has been speaking quietly aside with Gideon; now he tells Roxy, “Despite their occasional puppy bickering, they’re both honorable Alphas and fell warriors. Ye could do worse than to pick either of them to stand yer second.”

“Knights?” Roxy looks between the two, then considers the presence of Gideon, and the tall Beta who goes by _Merlin_. “You’re both Kingsmen.”

“Naturally,” Tristan says. She motions to her companion. “He is Bedivere.”

“And you?” Roxy looks at Gideon.

Gideon bows. “I am a solicitor only, my Lord. I handle all matters pertaining to Kingsman, as well as the personal interests of many of its members. Your lord sire did not choose to retain my services, but I am at yours, if you wish to engage me.”

Roxy looks back at the others. “And yet you’ll back me against Cardoc? Is he not in charge of the organization?”

“Our very own Arthur,” Merlin says.

“Then why?”

“Because this time he’s wrong,” Bedivere says. “He offered Miss Unwin an insult. It must be answered.”

Tristan nods in support of this. “Our king’s actions this day have not lived up to the standards we demand of ourselves. Mayhap this will teach him to think before he runs into covering fire.”

“Not bloody likely,” Merlin mutters.

“If I may ask, where is Miss Unwin now?”

“With a physician,” Merlin answers. “Lord Morton here insisted.”

“It seemed best,” Roxy says, somewhat discomfited now that her rage is ebbing and her actions are being put before a larger host. “Cardoc and I could not remain in the same place, and we were neither of us content to allow Miss Unwin to remain alone with each other. There is no mutually trustworthy chaperone in the house. And then, too, I wished to be assured that Miss Unwin had not… that is…” she reconsiders her words, in the face of two apparently fell warriors who refer to Cardoc as their king. “Had taken no injury during his… flight… to this place.”

“Well said,” Tristan murmurs. “A diplomat’s tongue, eh, Bedivere?”

“Or a spy’s,” Bedivere says in like tone. Both Alphas eye Roxy consideringly. “An asset, I’d say. Hey, young lord, ever considered joining Kingsman, like your sire did?”

“I… cannot say I had, no,” Roxy says truthfully.

“Consider it,” Bedivere advises.

“ _After_ you’ve done teaching Harry some manners,” Tristan grins.

A knock sounds, this time on the door. Gideon is closest, and pulls it open to reveal a diffident young Beta – the physician’s assistant.

“Excuse me, sirs, my Lords,” she says timidly. “I’m bid by my master to say that Miss Unwin’s time is upon him, and he must go at once into his retreat.”

“He will come with me,” Roxy says at once. “I have lodgings secured, overseen by a respectable matron with ample staff to see to Miss Unwin’s needs.”

“Marquess Cardoc would find that no more acceptable than you would find Miss Unwin remaining here under similar assurances,” Gideon says.

“I was not aware the Marquess Cardoc had any say in the matter.”

Gideon spreads her hands. “And I was not aware that _you_ had any say in the matter.”

“Miss Unwin is a resident and dependent of Morton Crescent – ”

“Whose legal authority currently resides in the hands of your uncle, Chester King.”

“Who is not here,” Roxy fires back. “I am here, and as it is I for whom the estate is being held in trust – ”

“I regret that the law does not observe such niceties.” Gideon clears her throat and turns to the physician’s assistant. “Has Miss Unwin expressed any preference, or indicated whether he has a retreat already arranged?”

“Yes, ma’am, he has.” The girl bobs her head. “He spoke of going to Richmond, and into the care of a Mistress Olwyn.”

“Richmond?” Roxy blinks. “There’s no Morton property in Richmond.”

Merlin clears his throat. “There’s a cottage. One of Harry’s.”

“Oh no. No – ”

“With respect,” Gideon cuts in. “I believe Miss Unwin is of age?”

Roxy turns a baleful look on her. “So Marquess Cardoc may tuck him into his little pied-à-terre without consequences?”

Gideon contrives to look apologetic. “Unless Lord Chester expresses a direct preference otherwise…”

“Harry won’t go near the Richmond house while Eggsy’s there,” Bedivere says unexpectedly. “You have our word on it.”

“There now. Surely ye can see that it’s for the best,” Merlin says. “The house in Richmond is comfortable and modern. Mistress Olwyn has been housekeeper for thirty years – she’s above reproach. And unless you’ve changed the staff recently, you’ve a cousin of hers in your employ at Morton Crescent. Name of Dagonet.”

 _Dagonet?_ Roxy recalls Dagonet’s suspicious depth of knowledge about gambling hells, secret trips to London, and clever financial dealings. And now his cousin is Marquess Cardoc’s housekeeper? Roxy is going to have some questions to ask upon her return to Morton Crescent, that’s for certain. But she must admit that the family reference is persuasive.

“If Harry stays away, there won’t even be a ding on Eggsy’s reputation,” Merlin finishes. “He’ll have every comfort, I assure ye of that.”

Roxy looks at Bedivere and Tristan. Tristan says, “We’ll sit on Harry if we have to. It’s our honor, too. Kingsman honor.”

This convinces Roxy more than anything Merlin might say. She may not think much of Cardoc’s honor, but Kingsman is clearly more than one badly-behaved Marquess. If these others are willing to hold their own up to the mark… she has to admit, a fully-staffed, well-appointed cottage must be a more comfortable place to pass a heat than lodgings, even Mistress Jeanne’s strictly-run lodgings.

She looks back at Merlin. “The physician will remain at the cottage for the duration, and in _my_ employ.” Coin may not be the best tool for keeping someone honest, but it’s all Roxy has, and it’s better than nothing.

Gideon answers for Merlin. “That sounds most suitable.”

Merlin grumbles something about wasted blunt, but nods acquiescence. “All right. Tristan, Bedivere, ye stay here with Lord Morton and work out who’s standing for whom, and when and how ye’re all trying to perforate each other. I will escort Miss Unwin to Richmond. Lass – ” to the physician’s assistant. “ – tell yer master we’ll be leaving shortly. Ho there!” Another servant pops into view, looking attentive. “Ready the closed carriage.” The servant vanishes. Merlin turns to Roxy. “I assume ye will not be arguing over whether I am a suitable escort for Miss Unwin?”

Since Merlin has not suggested sending any of the Kingsman Alphas, Roxy inclines her head. “You assume correctly, Master Merlin.”

That gets her a flash of a smile, curiously like old Dagonet’s when Roxy has surprised him with an unexpected insight. “Hah. Very well. Behave, now.” This last is to the two knights.

“Don’t we always?” Tristan laughs.

Merlin shakes his head as he heads from the room. “Don’t make me answer that.”

* * *

Merlin stalks from the room in high dudgeon. Behind him, Tristan and Bedivere share a mischievous look, then turn to Roxy.

“Now,” Tristan says, “how would you like us to compete for the honor of being your second, Lord Morton?”

Gideon frowns. “What’s this about a second?”

“It was brilliant,” Bedivere enthuses. “The footman told us all about it. Apparently Lord Morton threw Harry off of Miss Unwin and told him she’d call him to account for his crimes!”

“A challenge was issued,” Tristan says, more coolly. “It wants only the naming of Lord Morton’s second for details of place and weapons to be settled.”

“It wants more than that,” Gideon says. “Gentlemen, you are doubtless unaware – Lord Morton is not an adult. She cannot issue a challenge.”

“As if that’s ever stopped anyone,” Roxy scoffs. “The challenge was not only issued, it was accepted. Marquess Cardoc will meet me, as agreed.”

“Is it true, though?” Tristan asks. “You’re still under your majority?”

“I am twenty-five at midsummer,” Roxy says, frustrated.

“Then we can wait until then – ”

“Why does it _matter_?”

But Tristan and Bedivere are exchanging troubled looks. “Percival wanted it that way,” Tristan says to her compatriot, but she doesn’t look pleased.

“Percival was overprotective sometimes,” Bedivere counters. “But…”

“Wait,” Roxy says. Her heart’s in her throat. “You – you know why he wrote his will like this? My sire? You know why he set my majority so far off and under so many conditions?”

Tristan opens her mouth, but Bedivere puts a hand on her arm. “It’s not our story to tell,” he says.

“Then who can tell me?” Roxy looks between the two of them, frantic. “My sire is dead, my carrier is dead – I have no relatives that aren’t utterly worthless – _who_ can tell me, if you won’t?”

Another look between them. “Arthur,” Tristan says. “Harry.”

“Cardoc.”

“Yes,” Bedivere says. “Though, a word of advice – Harry doesn’t much go by his title. Most of us don’t, when we’re not out in Society. You’ll go farther with him if you call him by name.”

Roxy shakes her head. “But why would Cardoc – Hart – why would he _know_?”

“He’s our king,” Bedivere says, as if that explains everything.

“But you know too – why won’t you tell me?”

“If there’s a reason Harry hasn’t told you already,” Tristan says, “I have no idea what it is. Which means that either Harry’s being an idiot, or it’s very important, and we shouldn’t interfere with that.”

“The only way to know which is to ask Harry,” Bedivere agrees. “Or else – ” he looks at Gideon, who shakes her head.

“I have no more information than what is contained in the will itself. I concur with your reasoning – Marquess Cardoc is the correct person to ask.”

“I’m trying to duel him,” Roxy says desperately. “I can’t ask him about my sire! We oughtn’t to meet until it’s on the field of honor!”

Gideon shrugs. “There may _be_ no duel, if the issue of your majority cannot be resolved.”

“Today’s affair notwithstanding, Kingsman are, in fact, quite expert at discretion,” Tristan says. “If you were to step into the library just now, I think no one would mention it.”

“This isn’t fair,” Roxy says, defeated.

“Life seldom is,” Bedivere says. He sounds bitter, and Tristan puts a comforting arm around his shoulders.

“Go on, young lord,” Tristan says. At her side, Bedivere nods in support.

Roxy doesn’t want to. But she wants to know more than she doesn’t want to.

She goes.

* * *

_How many doors will I knock on before I find what I seek?_

Once again Roxy stands before a threshold. _Third time lucky_ , old Dagonet had often said.

_My sire is dead. My carrier is dead. Am I then the third? Or is Cardoc the third – the one who can tell me what my parents really wanted?_

How many emotions can Roxy feel simultaneously? She knows Cardoc to be a vile criminal, a rake masquerading as a noble, capable of kidnapping, slaving, and rape. Her own eyes attest to it. And yet Hart seems also to have had the trust of her parents. To have had their loyalty. And he may have the answers to questions that have haunted Roxy from her brief adolescence through her long, twilight not-quite-adulthood. Which makes an old, stunted part of Roxy suddenly long desperately for his approval.

She squashes it as mercilessly as she’s ever squashed the desire to see her parents one more time. But she does knock on the library’s door, cursing herself bitterly as she does. _When will I grow up?_

“Come in,” a weary voice calls.

_Not today, apparently._

Roxy enters.

“You!” Hart looks up in surprise. He’s sprawled in a comfortable armchair, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. His one visible eye glowers balefully. He says, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And I said as much, but I was outvoted.” Roxy decides that Hart’s invitation to enter also comprises an invitation to take a chair. And, upon further reflection, a drink. She could use one, too.

Hart presses his glass against his forehead as if it aches. “I’m really looking forward to getting to shoot you. That’s my choice of weapons, by the way. Pistols.”

“May we both get to use them.” Roxy pours out two fingers of what smells like whiskey and swirls it around in the glass to catch the light. “Unfortunately, there’s apparently a snag.”

“Enlighten me.”

Roxy glances around, frowning. She hadn’t noticed when she’d first entered, the open door allowing the light from the hallway to stream in, but now that she’s closed the door behind her she realizes that it’s actually quite dim. None of the candles are lit; only the fire and the setting sun illuminates the room.

Well, she can correct that. She takes a taper from the pile next to the whiskey decanter and takes it over to the fire, holding it in the flames until it lights.

“You seem to have taken me rather more literally than I intended,” Hart says dryly, watching Roxy go about the room touching the taper to the candles. Good wax, all of them, and barely showing any signs of wear. Either Hart is wealthier than the Mortons of Morton Crescent, or he sits most evenings with only the light of his fire to shine upon him. Roxy isn’t sure which depresses her more.

“Perhaps I merely wished to see the face of the Alpha I intend to kill,” she replies. The last candle lit, she extinguishes the taper, returns it to its bin, and takes a seat in the other armchair with which the room is provided.

That makes Hart smile wryly. “Excellent,” he replies. “You’ve seen it. What is this snag?”

Roxy takes a sip of her whiskey. It’s exquisite, and burns delightfully going down. “I am not yet twenty-five. I am also unmated.”

Hart doesn’t seem to understand her meaning right away. But she waits, and after a moment that seems like an eternity, she sees comprehension appear.

“You haven’t reached your majority.”

“Tristan and Bedivere knew the contents of my sire’s will,” Roxy says. “I see that you do, as well.”

“Yes, I do.”

Roxy lowers her class to her lap. She lifts her chin and asks, as steadily as she can manage, “Why did my sire restrict my majority?”

Hart smiles humorlessly. “To protect you.”

Roxy attempts to make this make sense. She fails.

Hart is nodding. “He never even told you about Kingsman, did he? I thought as much. He left your shares in my keeping and hid the rest. I wasn’t even to send you anything from your funds unless you were in dire need. You always seemed to have plenty, so I never did.”

“ _Plenty_?” Roxy nearly chokes on the word.

Hart shrugs. “You lived quietly at home, never traveled, never gambled, never kept a mistress – ” Roxy growls involuntarily, and Hart has the grace to look somewhat abashed. “Well, you were never short on necessaries, so I judged Percival’s stipulations met.”

“And was one of his stipulations that I know nothing of Kingsman?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Again Hart says: “To protect you.”

_“How does that protect me?”_

Hart sighs. “Kingsman is a dangerous organization. Membership in it cost Percival his life. James’, too, by extension.”

“Did Percival hide Kingsman from my carrier as well?”

“James knew what he was mating into. His sire, the duke, was once Lancelot.”

Roxy nods numbly. “They only hid it from me.”

“Kingsman cares for its dependents.” Hart drains his glass in one long swig. “Our protection is dual-edged, and can do little for most, but Percival had many enemies. He was a devastatingly effective knight. Some of his defeated foes lived. Some of them held a grudge.”

“What does this have to do with – ”

“As long as you are a minor you are entitled to our protection. Percival wanted to keep you a minor as long as legally possible. In order to keep you safe.”

Roxy’s jaw works. At first no sound comes out. Then she cries, “Of all the stupid, bone-headed – ”

“Percival forgot that cubs become wolves,” Hart interrupts. “He saw you as you were, not as you would be. If he had lived, he would likely have changed it.”

“But he didn’t. He died.”

“And so you remain a cub.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“It’s the truth.” Hart laughs humorlessly. “And so – you have no standing to challenge me, then, have you? I think we both know Chester King isn’t going to haul his crusty, unwashed bottom here to do it.” Hart sets his glass down on the nearby side-table. “Well, this has been a most diverting afternoon, but I suppose you’ll be going now.”

Roxy is reeling, but amidst the chaos within her she still manages to hold tight to her purpose. “I am not leaving without satisfaction. My uncle may have decided his honor can stand slaving, and my sire – ” her voice cracks. “My sire may have forgotten I would ever _have_ honor – but I – I cannot. And Eggsy Unwin has honor, too. Honor which deserves better than what you have given him.”

That shot goes home, Roxy can see it, but Hart still shakes his head. “I will be sure that my future _Arlodhes_ will have everything he deserves and more.” Hart’s smile is cruel. “If Eggsy even remembers you exist after his heat, we may invite you to the mating ceremony. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

Roxy gasps, feeling as if she’s been punched in the stomach. No words come. She tastes bile.

Hart stands. “Your business here is concluded, Lord Morton. You will leave.”

“She will _not_ leave,” a voice contradicts. The door opens, and both Tristan and Bedivere stride in.

“You were listening?” Hart’s voice is accusing.

“Merlin isn’t here to keep you from making an ass of yourself, so the duty falls to us,” Tristan says. “I formally propose Roxanne Morton for full knighthood in Kingsman.”

“ _What_?” says Hart.

 _“What_?” says Roxy.

“I second the nomination,” Bedivere says. “I believe the Lancelot position is open.”

“ _No_ ,” says Hart.

“ _What_?” repeats Roxy.

“Any member of Kingsman is treated as a full adult within the organization, regardless of what may be true outside of it,” Tristan says.

“It’s less common now, but when the organization was first gathered in the wars, many became knights before reaching their majority,” Bedivere explains as an aside. “Especially with the longstanding preference for hereditary appointments…”

“And the tendency for Kingsman dependents to be orphaned young,” Tristan mutters.

Bedivere gives a rueful nod. “It is so, I’m afraid. It’s no easy knighthood we offer you. But it’s yours by right. And with it comes – much.”

“Including the right to stand up to our king,” Tristan says, “and call him to account.”

“Some might call this mutiny,” Hart snaps. “Some might call this treason.”

“And some might call this loyalty,” Bedivere cries.

“Harry, what’s _happening_ to you?” Tristan demands, less loudly but no less intently. “When did you start thinking that wanting someone justified buying them? Kidnapping your desired mate? Really, Harry?”

“I had to protect him!” Hart shouts.

“Not like that!” Bedivere shouts back.

Hart is still on his feet. He steps forward, fists clenched.

Tristan steps between he and Bedivere. “A candidate has been proposed, and seconded,” she says, her voice ringing with formality. “Can you show cause for objection?”

“Your wounded pride doesn’t count,” Bedivere hisses. “Remember the charter. A _real_ objection, Harry. Go on. Show cause for rape or kin-murder. See if you dare it.”

Hart is so furious the tendons on his neck are standing out. If gaze alone could do it, Roxy would be afire where she stands. But he wrenches his gaze back to his loyal, disloyal knights, and grates out, “I know of no cause to object.”

“Then Roxanne Morton will be brought before the full Table at the next Conclave,” Tristan says.

“Three days hence,” Bedivere says. “At the new moon. Send out the call, Arthur.”

There’s a moment of frozen silence. Then Hart slumps, turning and putting his hand on the arm of the chair as if he needs the support.

“The call will be sent,” he mutters.

“Did you tell her?” Tristan asks, quietly now. “About Percival?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Hart doesn’t answer.

“Come away,” Bedivere says, beginning to draw Roxy back.

“Wait,” Hart says.

Bedivere stops. All three – Bedivere, Tristan, and Roxy – look at Hart with wariness.

“Roxanne Morton will be brought before the full Table at the next Conclave,” Hart says. “And if, as I have no reason to disbelieve, she is knighted Lancelot – ” Hart speaks the name as if it pains him. “ – then she will meet me two days after the new moon, at dawn, on the dueling grounds in the forest beyond Richmond. She should bring her second. But the weapons – ” Hart’s shoulders straighten. “ – the weapons, which are to be pistols, I shall provide.”

“Harry,” Tristan whispers.

“You have heard the word of your king,” Hart says.

Bedivere bows his head. “Yes, Arthur,” he says.

“Yes, Arthur,” Tristan says, doing the same.

Hart looks at Roxy. Roxy looks at Hart. She is no Kingsman – not yet – and so she does not bow her head. But she does nod.

“Make sure they shoot straight,” she says.

Hart’s smile is a frightening thing. “They will,” he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we have officially hit the end of the posting requirements for the Fic Wars challenge! ~~Going forward, we will be increasing our posting schedule to **weekly on Sundays** , starting with chapter 11 next Sunday (3/25).~~
> 
> Due to a combination of real life factors, chapter eleven has been delayed a week to this coming Sunday 4/1. Weekly posting will continue from that date.
> 
> Thanks and please continue to follow the story!


	11. Unforeseen Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Alpha's courting of a suitable Omega is a formal affair and the proprieties must be observed. It is also a chance for Harry Hart to show Eggsy just how good a provider he can be. Eggsy, for his part, knows that Harry is his Alpha and the proprieties can be damned.
> 
> Of course, there are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the following warnings: **forced drugging, forced medical examination, non-consensual genital penetration in the context of a medical exam.**

_**The Evening Before** _

About to leave for an evening to be spent dodging doe-eyed Omegas and their grasping carriers at Lady Quinelle's musicale, Harry's butler, Lucius interrupts him with a letter on a silver tray. "One of the footmen who went with Mistress Olwyn delivered this within the past quarter-hour."

Harry recognizes Merlin's handwriting on the envelope and all but snatches it off of the tray. He excuses himself and heads into the small salon off of the foyer to read Merlin's letter in private. Per Harry's instructions, he's staying with Eggsy, to stand guard and make sure that his intended experiences nothing unpleasant. To see to Eggsy's every comfort, and Harry worries that something's gone wrong.

Merlin's note has but a single line.

_You are one lucky bastard._

Perhaps because it encloses a letter from Eggsy. 

Harry breaks the seal on that missive with shaking hands. He's gambled deeply and Merlin's note makes it seem as if that gamble has paid off, but until Harry reads Eggsy's words with his own eyes, he won't allow himself to believe his good fortune.

_Dear Harry -_

_I find it strange to have permission to address you with such familiarity, but Merlin insists that you prefer that. And I have your own words on that score, as well._

_It is even stranger to be so blunt in my communications to you. But perhaps it's best that way. So there are no misunderstandings._

_Your letter and the statements you provided have made me rethink what I asked of you - that we wait to discuss anything until I'm done with -_

Eggsy's scratched out several words and Harry smiles at his intended's attempt to balance bluntness with the dictates of polite society.

_with my heat._

And Harry's even more pleased that Eggsy has decided to be blunt. There's no point in couching a natural function in euphemism.

_I would like to see you tomorrow, at your convenience, to discuss your intentions and determine the best way to move forward with them._

_I look forward to hearing from you._

_With warm regards,_

_Eggsy_

Harry refolds the letter, returns it to the envelope, and tucks it into his breast pocket, where it rests against his heart. He goes back to the foyer and asks Lucius if the footman has returned to the Richmond house.

"No, my lord. He said that Master Merlin told him to wait for a reply, or if you had already left for the evening, to stay the night and return early in the morning once you'd read the letter he delivered."

"Good." Harry thinks for a moment. "Please have my carriage dismissed. I will not be going out tonight." He'll have to send a message to Lady Quinelle, apologising for his absence, but that will wait until he composes his reply to Eggsy.

Harry goes through three sheets of stationary before he's satisfied with his letter to Eggsy. He hopes he doesn't sound like an idiot, although Merlin would likely tell him that when it comes to Eggsy, he can't help the condition.

He sends off that letter, plus another one to Merlin with the waiting footman. Harry then pens a brief note to Lady Quinelle, then tells his valet that absent a dire emergency, he is not to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. Finally, although it is quite late, he sends an urgent note to his tailor, telling him that the instructions that he'd been given last week are to be following tomorrow morning.

Obligations addressed and proprieties observed, Harry locks the door to his study and pulls on a latch hidden in a bookcase, which swings away to reveal a heavy, locked door. Harry needs two keys to open it - what this door conceals is both precious and irreplaceable. It is the Kingsman muniments room, where Harry keeps all of the original documents pertaining to the foundation of the organization, from the original Letters of Marque given to his grandsire, providing legal justification for his piracy, to the Orders of Foundation of the Company of Kingsman, signed by King George II, authorizing the First Marquess Cardoc to gather up a regiment of "bodies deemed appropriate" for the purpose of providing intelligence to England in both times of peace and war, with permission to operate wherever English interests reside.

His grandsire, Perren Austell Hart, ever a Cornishman, had also been a fanciful man, one much taken with the tales of Arthur and his noble knights. As he'd added those "appropriate bodies" to his Company, he gave them names out of the ancient legends. At first, it had been an informal thing, but over time (and quite likely to appease the vanity of the Alphas and Betas who'd vied for positions within the group), he made those designations official. 

Harry smiles at the memory of the grand old Alpha who had filled his head with stories. Stories that had propelled him into the life he lives now. But that life might have been cut short had he not had the foresight to take the time and visit with the elderly Beta woman that had served as his grandsire's "Merlin". Jerusha Pengallan had been a woman of much wit and equally great love for the written word, and in the forty years she'd worked at Harry's grandsire's side, she'd documented everything, preserving the legacy of Kingsman.

By the time that Harry had sought her out in a village a half-day's ride from Tintagel, the Beta had gone nearly blind, her eyes white with cataracts, but she'd asked - half in jest - if she could ride by Harry's side.

They'd managed to make it to the end of the path leading up to her cottage, before she told Harry to turn back.

"You're certainly your grandsire's heir, young Harry. A noble and kind soul, for all of your fierceness. I'm not long for this world, but I'm grateful to have lived long enough to see Kingsman reborn. Before you go, there is much you should know, much that not even your grandsire would have been able to tell you."

Harry had spent three full weeks with his grandsire's Merlin, learning everything that she could teach him, patiently answering all his questions, and when he left, his head had been spinning with ideas on how to take this strange and exciting legacy and build it into an empire. The books and papers which populate this room are the records that Jerusha had kept, including meticulous documentation of investments she'd made on Kingsman's behalf. Real estate all over England, shipping contracts, mining contracts, manufacturing contracts; to Harry's utter bemusement, Kingsman is in _trade_ , trade which has brought Kingsman and its surviving members, great wealth.

On this old Merlin's advice, Harry had retained the law firm of Hardwick, Gideon, and Kenilworth and sets aside a considerable sum as seed money for the new venture. He also makes some modifications to the rules if the Company his grandsire had laid down nearly half-century ago. They are a worthy foundation, but need to be updated. In the months before he's to take command and ship out to the New World, Harry rebuilds Kingsman from the ground up, recruiting from the pool of hungry and eager Alphas he'd run with at school, and then in London.

Harry touches the books and papers in the room - the written memory of the Kingsman legacy - and can't help but think how quickly time passes.

In one of the trunks, a battered thing that had travelled with Harry from Cornwall to the Colonies and back, is a leather case. Once, it held a pair of daggers that had been his grandfather's from his pirate days. As a cub, Harry had been fascinated by the weapons, and to his sire and carrier's horror, his grandsire had given in to Harry's begging and made a gift of the set to Harry on his twelfth birthday.

Harry had promptly cut himself and the daggers had been packed away for years. 

Harry opens the trunk and takes out the case. One dagger is still there, resting in its faded red velvet cradle. The other dagger is now in the possession of Harry's intended, who had - just this morning - threatened to kill Harry with it. That seems oddly appropriate.

In one of the last conversations Harry had had with the elderly Merlin, she impressed on him how important it would be to select the right person for the role; they must be someone Harry can trust with everything, without question. 

Harry had asked if perhaps it would be best to make his Merlin his mate, to find an Omega of strength and wit and independence. She'd not called him a fool, but her look strongly questioned his intelligence.

"You're too much like your grandsire. When you find your Omega, your mate, you'll not want to send him out into the world, let alone into danger. Your instincts won't allow it."

He'd protested, "But I'm more than just instinct, I'm not ruled by my biology."

The elderly Merlin had just laughed. "You'd like to think that, my boy. Find a Beta, someone who's lost all hope, who has nothing left to live for. If you can give him hope, you'll give him a reason to live. The right person will follow you to the ends of the earth and keep you from being terminally stupid. At least most of the time."

Harry had followed her advice and it had taken nearly two years in the Colonies before he'd found a Beta that could be worthy of the job, worthy of Harry's trust. 

_**Manhattan Island, 1780** _

The Kingsman Company is stationed in the British-controlled New York City, and Harry, as commanding officer, ostensibly reports directly to General Howe. In truth, that is rarely the case. Harry and his operatives - Kingsman is an independent company - work out of a tavern at the south end of Manhattan Island, gathering intelligence about the Continental Army's maneuvers. They move about New York and New Jersey at will, with little guidance from the General Staff.

One evening, shortly before Christmas, while Harry's walking back to his quarters following a mostly unproductive meeting with Howe and his staff, he finds himself in the middle of a rather boisterous bar fight spilling onto the street. A troop of blue-coated Hessians is beating up - or trying to beat up - a man wearing a Rifleman's green uniform jacket. Harry dives into the fight without a second thought; five hours of pent up frustration need an outlet. There is a definite joy in feeling flesh and bone give way to his fists. It has been too long since he'd fought like this, and it's even better when he finds himself fighting back to back with the Rifleman against the Hessians.

A few minutes more and they might have been able to claim victory, except that someone called the damn Watch and instead of having a celebratory pint at the tavern, Harry finds himself in irons and behind bars; cellmates with the Rifleman he'd gone to rescue. The man is a Beta, something which Harry's grateful for. Getting locked up with another Alpha could be disastrous.

"Ye're an idiot, ye know."

Harry shrugs and smiles.

"Ye always throw yerself into a fight with strangers?"

"I have an overdeveloped sense of fairness. Five against one seemed a bit wrong." Harry licks at his scraped knuckles. "Although I have to say you did a fair job of holding your own."

"Thanks. And for the record, I was handling those Hessian bastards just fine."

"If you say so." Harry leans back against the stone wall and does his best to ignore the damp chill seeping through his coat. "Why were you fighting?"

"It's not important. Nothing to bother yer pretty little head about."

Harry takes the insult in stride. "Well, thank you for the compliment, but I do prefer Omegas."

His cellmate stares at him for a moment and then laughs. "Ye're not just an idiot. Ye're crazy, too."

"Perhaps." Harry holds out his hand and introduces himself, "Harry Hart." No title or rank, just his name. 

His cellmate doesn't return the courtesy.

"It looks like we might be here for a while. What shall I call you?"

"I'm a man with no name. No country, either."

"You're a Rifleman. Where's your partner?" Riflemen always operate in teams of two; one to shoot and one to provide cover during reload.

"Never had a partner. Never wanted one."

Something about the Beta's tone makes Harry wonder just who this man really is. "You really are going to be difficult, aren't you?"

"Fuck off." 

"A little gratitude would be nice." Harry's not annoyed; he's having too much fun baiting this poor bastard.

"Like I said, fuck off. I didn't need help back there, especially not from some poncy Englishman without the sense that God gave him."

The world might call Harry an Englishman, but his grandsire would give him a well-deserved beating if Harry had ever called himself that. He's a Cornishman, a child of the land at the end of the world, and while he might give German George his allegiance, Harry has always considered himself something better than the mongrels that hold power. From someone else, Harry might take offense at being called an Englishman, but this Beta is little more than a wounded animal who deserves compassion.

Except that Harry has a feeling that any show of empathy would be poorly received. Hell, any question he might ask would likely earn him a fist in the face. But Harry Hart has never shied away from battle, and he's not going to start now. "How long has it been since you've been home?"

"And for a third time, fuck off."

Well, that's better than a fist in the face. Harry resigns himself to the other man's sullen silence and waits. It won't be long before either Lancelot or Gawain realizes he hasn't made it back from the meeting with General Howe and go to look for him.

Time does stretch thin and it could be fifteen minute or several hours before the outer door opens. It's a guard, and behind the guard is a very annoyed Lancelot. Harry stands up, his joints stiff from the damp and the awkward position, not to mention the aftermath of the fight.

The guard grovels as he unlocks Harry's manacles. "Colonel Hart, apologies for the misunderstanding."

Lancelot rolls her eyes. "Well, the Colonel is out of uniform, so perhaps you understood the situation correctly."

Harry knows that he's in for a tongue-lashing. But they are intelligence officers, and walking around an occupied city in full regalia is not the way to be subtle. Or stay alive.

Lancelot spares a glance for Harry's compatriot, and Harry looks down. His cellmate hasn't moved, and his eyes are closed, as if he's sleeping. "Come on, time to go."

The man doesn't move, but he does open his eyes when Harry taps his leg with his boot. "You're going to miss dinner if you don't get off your ass, Corporal." The rank on the man's uniform is faded, but legible. 

The guard is stupefied, "Colonel, sir – this man is with you?"

Harry puts on his best Alpha-Lord-of-the-Manor act, and gives the guard a look of deep offense. "This soldier came to my aid when those Hessians started harassing me. I'm certainly not leaving him here to rot."

The guard looks at Lancelot, who shrugs.

The Rifleman slowly gets to his feet and holds out his wrists, and the guard does the honors of unlocking the manacles.

The three of them head out into the chilly evening air. Harry half expects his new friend to run off, but he doesn't.

"Were ye telling the truth about supper?"

Harry nods.

"I owe ye. Not just for this afternoon, but for this." He lifts his hands in a gesture of freedom.

"You owe me nothing. Now come on, I'm hungry."

Harry and Lancelot take their unnamed companion to the Kingsman's tavern and head through the crowded public room to the Company's private quarters. A barmaid brings them cider and ale and lets them know that the cook saved a suet pie for the Colonel.

Harry smiles at the girl and tells her that he's most grateful for the cook's thoughtfulness. The pie, stuffed with meat and vegetables, is hot and filling. Harry and Lancelot watch as their guest makes his way through several large slices and multiple tankards of cider. It's rather fulfilling to see someone satisfying such a basic appetite. Harry wonders how long it's been since the man had a decent meal.

"You said you were nameless. Someone must have called you something, once. What did you tell the enlistment officer?"

"Who says I actually enlisted? Got off the boat and my choice to take the shilling or get sent north to clear timber and kill the natives. I'm not proud of the choice I made, but I made it." The man plucks at the worn green coat. "Took this coat off a dead man. The rifle that goes with it, too. The officers never questioned me when I showed up for duty."

Lancelot sees things a little clearer than Harry. She asks, "What name did the English put down when they transported you." It's rare that Lancelot lets her native Ireland creep into her voice.

That seems to unlock their guest's tongue. "Hamish McRae, but he's been dead for five years. Some people call me Jamie."

Harry has to ask, "Why didn't you desert, join up with the Colonials?"

"They're just as bad as the English. They're slavers. Even their great general, Washington, owns slaves." Jamie makes a disgusted face. "So it's the devil I know and maybe I'll live long enough to muster out, or maybe I'll die like the man who owned this jacket before me, with a bullet between the eyes."

"Or maybe you'll live long enough to wave your hairy bum at German George as his carriage rolls down Pall Mall."

Hamish laughs bitterly. "Unlikely. I'd need to live a long time to earn a free man's passage back home. Not that I could go home. It was either the hangman's noose for poaching on land my family had tended for generations, or transportation. A choice not that different from the one I'd been given when my prison ship docked in Halifax Harbor."

"You could earn your passage in honest service." 

Jamie leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "And what service might that be?"

"We can discuss that in the morning. You'll bunk down here and I'll introduce you to the rest of the Company tomorrow."

Lancelot gives him a startled look. Harry ignores her. He remembers what his grandsire's Merlin had told him. _"Find a Beta, someone who's lost all hope, who has nothing left to live for. If you can give him hope, you'll give him a reason to live."_ He's not ready to offer Jamie the position just yet, but his instincts tell him that he's found the right person to stand by his side.

_**Present Day** _

Harry closes the case with a smile at the good memories. Taking on Jamie as his Merlin is perhaps the best decision of his life and he can't imagine that he'd be the man he is without his Merlin. 

But nostalgia and self-reflection aren't why he's in this room. 

Not only does he keep Kingsman's history here, but other valuables, too. He opens another trunk and takes out another leather case, but this one doesn't contain knives, but a portion of the jewels that his grandsire had bestowed upon his grandcarrier - strings of pearls from the South Seas, rubies from Ceylon, diamonds from India. All of these will soon belong to Eggsy, God willing. Harry will visit his jeweler while Eggsy is in his heat, and he's have a betrothal pendant made. There are customs about wedding jewelry that must be observed. The courting bracelet is usually an heirloom, the pendant that marks an Omega's acceptance of an Alpha's suit should be newly made, and the engaged couple selects their wedding rings together. 

Harry opens box after box, looking for just the right piece to mark as his next courting gift. If the chess set told Eggsy about the kind of man that Harry is, this gift should tell Eggsy about the family Harry comes from. He knows what he wants and begins to get frustrated that he can't find it. If it's not here, he'll have to make do with something else. But when his fingers land on a soft velvet bag, he knows he's found what he's been searching for, and spills it out into his palm.

The simple gold medallion is not an imposing piece, and unlike most of the other jewelry, it's unadorned with precious stones. The design is worn, but that doesn't surprise Harry, given the age of the piece. According to his grandsire, it's at least seven hundred years old and belonged to the last king of Cornwall. Harry had always been skeptical of the story, but he thinks it will appeal to Eggsy, as much as the fact that Harry's grandcarrier had worn it every day of his life.

Harry closes his fist around the gold and closes his eyes. He can see Eggsy, his warm ivory skin glowing with health, his belly just beginning to swell with Harry's child, the medallion hanging from his neck. Eggsy's smiling and he gestures to Harry, and Harry covers that belly with his hand. Eggsy whispers, "I love you" and Harry's happiness is complete.

Harry opens his eyes, startled to see candlelight flickering on books and boxes, not on the man he hopes to love more than life itself.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Eggsy enjoys the new mattress and linens and pillows that smell like autumn sunshine. He also enjoys Mistress Olwyn and her sly sense of humor – it a comforting reminder of Dagonet back at Morton Crescent. The staff she'd brought with her from Lord Hart's house in Mayfair are all Omegas, and are respectful to Eggsy; and when Merlin had assembled them just before the evening meal and announced that no one was to enter Miss Unwin's room without his expressed permission, they all nodded in understanding.

By rights, Eggsy should be exhausted. While Merlin and Mistress Olwyn had made certain that Eggsy's rooms had first priority, the chaos of cleaning and redecorating had lasted well into the night. The staff had burned precious wax candles to light the rooms they'd been working in, an extravagance Eggsy had never seen. Lord Chester is such a skinflint that he doesn't even allow for fires to be lit in the servants' quarters unless there's a hard freeze, and even then, he's painfully miserly with the coal and the kindling.

The house doesn't quiet down until well after moonrise, and the hall clock, newly set and wound, chimes twelve, but Eggsy can't sleep. Like last night, his body is exhausted but his mind is not. At Merlin's advice, he'd written a note to Lord Hart - _Harry_ \- and spoke plainly about his own intentions and expectations, and an hour after supper, the messenger returned with Harry's reply. 

Harry is delighted by Eggsy's change of heart and cannot wait to see him. He has some unavoidable business in the morning, but if Eggsy would call on him at his Mayfair address two hours after noon, then Harry would be most pleased to receive him.

Eggsy knows that this is quite backwards. The usual order of things dictates that suitor should call upon his intended, not the other way around. But there's nothing usual about Harry Hart's courtship of Eggsy Unwin. After all, it had started out with a kidnapping.

This isn't what worries Eggsy. He finds he doesn't care about convention, and Harry Hart doesn't seem like an Alpha who does, either. Eggsy's worried about the simple things, like his shabby suit, his shaggy hair, the shoes which he's just discovered have a hole in the sole. He'll look worse than a charity case, and there no amount of appreciation that he could find in Harry's eyes that will reduce that shame.

Maybe he should wait until his heat is over. Maybe he should use the time before it starts to acquire a decent wardrobe and some proper grooming. He has funds at his disposal now. More money that he'll ever spend in a lifetime. Eggsy wonders if Merlin's still awake, and willing to give him some advice.

He puts on his trousers and shoes and shirt and takes a single lit candle before he goes to look for Merlin. To his relief, Eggsy find the man in the garden, smoking a pipe.

"Why aren't ye asleep?"

"Can't." Eggsy sits on the bench next to the Beta. 

"Why not?"

Eggsy doesn't answer right away. It's hard to explain and he doesn't want to sound like a fool, or worse.

"Eggsy?"

"I think I made a mistake."

"Yer having second thoughts? About Harry?" Merlin's voice is cool and Eggsy thinks he hears a thread of anger in it.

"No, not about Lord Hart." Retreating to formality may make his explanation easier. "Just about timing."

In the moonlight, Merlin looks like his namesake, a bird of prey. Eggsy, however, is not afraid of him. "I'm a right mess, Merlin. I'm a grubby country boy without a clean pair of stocking or shoes that don't have holes in them. No matter how well my breeches are laundered, they still are going to look like they've been lived in for weeks. The elbows on my jacket are shiny and there are stains on my waistcoat." Eggsy sniffs, feeling way too sorry for himself. "I can't go to see Lord Hart looking like some poor bumpkin. I'll humiliate him."

Merlin sighs, but before he can speak, Eggsy continues in a rush. "I have some money now, and I thought that maybe I could see a tailor and buy a new suit, maybe have my shoes fixed. Maybe a barber to trim my hair? But all of that's going to take time." Eggsy feels like such a fool, now.

"Ah, kitling. Ye've got nothing to worry about."

"What do you mean?"

"Ye didn't think Harry would allow ye to feel ashamed, did ye?"

"Merlin?" Eggsy feels just the tiniest bit of hope.

"Harry's made arrangements for his tailor to come here first thing in the morning. He'll have a good suit for ye, and everything else ye need, from the skin out. Of course, the best clothes will need to be tailored and that does take time, but the tailor has an approximation of ye measurements and he'll have something ready for ye when ye go to see Harry in the afternoon. Ye'll look like a right proper Omega, noble and elegant."

Eggsy's not sure he'll ever look noble, but the relief at not having to show up in old, worn out clothing is palpable. "Thank you." 

"And for the record, Harry will want to see ye tomorrow, no matter what yer wearing."

Eggsy does believe that's true, but he still doesn't want to face Lord Hart dressed like the poorest of poor relations.  
Merlin herds Eggsy back to bed, and Eggsy falls into a deep and dreamless sleep, interrupted only when Merlin knocks sharply on his door to let him know that the tailor will be arriving in a hour and that there's a hot bath waiting for him right now.

Eggsy does manage to work himself back into a state after the lovely bath, thinking that the tailor will take one look at him in his shabby clothes and turn right around and leave. But whether the presence of Mistress Olwyn and Merlin is enough to intimidate the tailor into accepting Eggsy as he is, or if he'd been forewarned to be on his best behavior by Lord Hart himself, the tailor, a fussy, middle-aged Omega, is coolly pleasant to Eggsy. 

As Merlin had told him, the majority of this new wardrobe will require several fittings, but the tailor has brought several items that were made to Eggsy's approximate measurements. It took a few hours, but by the noon hour, Eggsy had the start of a gentleperson's wardrobe, complete with a full quantity of small clothes and two pair of fine shoes. He's also had a haircut, a shave and of all things, a manicure.

Merlin's waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and when he sees Eggsy in his new finery, the man smiles and gives him a nod of approval. "Looking good, Eggsy."

Eggsy releases a nervous breath and replies with a confidence he's never had before, "Feeling good, Merlin."

There's a carriage waiting for them and Eggsy lets Merlin help him in, like a proper and dainty Omega. "How long will it take to get to Harry's house?"

"About an hour, give or take. It's afternoon and the road into London shouldn't be overly crowded."

Feeling way too nervous for silence, Eggsy asked, "Do you like London?"

"It grows on ye." Merlin shakes his head. "Once, I thought I'd rather die that live amongst the English."

"Really?"

"Aye, really. My formative years had been shaped by what the English did to my country."

Eggsy doesn't know much about Scotland, except for what he'd read in Lord Roxy's newspapers. So he nods and hopes he looks like he understands.

But Merlin sees right through him. "I was transported when I was fifteen, for poaching. I'd killed two rabbits on land that my family had farmed for generations, but the English came and said we couldn't stay - that they needed to land for their infernal sheep and that taking even vermin was stealing."

"The Enclosures." That's what Eggsy had read about that, how the landowners had been forcing families off their property. The articles had been most in favor of this practice, moving surplus people to Canada and the Antipodes. Eggsy had thought the process was terrible and cruel.

"Aye." Merlin sighs. "Harry found me in New York, when he was there with his company of spies. He took me in, saved my life. Showed me that not all of the English were cruel bastards. Except that Harry Hart would not be happy to hear me call him an Englishman. He's a Cornishman, through and through. And right proud of it."

"He signed his letter to me as _Arlodh_. I really didn't think much of it, but that's the Cornish word for lord."

"And he's right proud of that title. Values it more than the Marquessate."

"Marquess?" Eggsy blinks. "I'd forgotten that Harry's the Marquess Cardoc." When he'd taken notes on the contract that Harry and Lord Chester had been negotiating all those months ago, Lord Chester had made certain that Eggsy knew the title of the rich and powerful man he'd been trying to screw over. But yesterday, when Merlin had introduced Eggsy to Harry, he hadn't used the title and Harry rank had completely slipped Eggsy's mind.

He's being courted by a _Marquess_. The idea is absolutely ridiculous and Eggsy starts to panic. 

Something must show on his face, because Merlin asks, "Eggsy? Kitling? Are you all right?"

Eggsy stares at Merlin, eyes wide. "I don't know." It's hard to breathe. All he can think is that Harry is marquess, one step below a duke. It's not that Harry's simply a nobleman - after all, Lord Roxy is an Earl - but he's of such high rank, a _Most Honorable_. And he wants to _marry_ plain, simple, common-born Eggsy Unwin.

The autumn light grows dim and Merlin, fuzzy. All Eggsy can hear is his pounding heartbeat.

"Eggsy, Eggsy - " Merlin is shaking him. "Just breathe, in and out, in and out."

Somehow, Eggsy manages to latch onto Merlin's voice and follow his instructions. Soon enough, the panic eases.

"What happened there, kitling?" Merlin is squeezing his hand.

"Don't know - just got all fuzzy-headed at the though of me, a marchioness. Just seems so unbelievably ludicrous to contemplate."

"Ah, trust me, Eggsy. Of the pair of ye, Harry's the more ludicrous. He's a ridiculous peacock with a taste for drama."

"Which is why he kidnapped me." Eggsy can't help himself - he giggles.

"Aye, like I said - he loves drama. But he's true of heart and will be utterly faithful to ye."

Eggsy nods; that's something to focus on instead of Harry's rank. But he still worries. "I hope I can make him happy. We don't have much in common."

"From what I've seen, kitling, most couples don't. Marriages are dynastic things - "

"But I'm not bringing Harry any wealth, any power. What will people say when they hear that Marquess Cardoc married a nameless Omega half his age?"

"Will the gossip bother ye?"

"I don't know. Probably. But not for my sake, for Harry's. His friends will not be happy."

"Harry's friends - such as they are - are his fellow Kingsman. Alphas that he'd fought with, first in the Colonies and then on the Continent. These are the people he trusts, and these are people who are more likely to be angry for yer sake - "

"That he kidnapped me." Eggsy doesn't think he'll ever get over that - except that the thought now gives him an odd and unseemly delight."

"Exactly. Ye've already met Tristan and Bedivere. Ye'll soon meet Gawain and Bors and Gareth."

The names surprise Eggsy. One of the books that Lord Roxy had lent to him had been _Le Morte d'Arthur_ , with instructions to take great care with the volume; it had been her carrier's copy and something of sentimental value to her. After a few days, Eggsy had handed the book back, saying that he couldn't really read it with all the weird spellings and strange French words. But Lord Roxy, who'd loved the tales of King Arthur and his noble knights, had been undeterred, and gave him a different set of books, written late in the last century, and Eggsy had enjoyed those immensely.

"Did Harry go around looking for people named for the knights of the Round Table?"

Merlin chuckles. "Nay, each Kingsman takes the name of a knight. Only Percival Morton had actually had the name before he joined Kingsman. His sire had been one of the original members of the company, back when Harry's grandsire founded it, and the Alpha thought it was a great joke to give his son his old code name.

Eggsy listens raptly while Merlin shared a few anecdotes about the members of Kingsman that Harry had recruited, but doesn't say anything when he realizes that Merlin doesn't tell him about Percival Morton or his father. Maybe those stories are best left for Harry to relate.

By the time the carriage pulls up to a grand house on a quiet street, Eggsy's managed to forget about his nerves, at least until a footman opens the carriage door and helps him down. There's a man waiting at the top of the stairs - thankfully not Harry - is likely the butler.

Eggsy takes a deep, steadying breath, and climbs the stairs, utterly conscious of Merlin just two steps behind him.

"Welcome to Cardoc House, Miss Unwin."

Eggsy pretends he's Lord Roxy and summons a regalness he imagines she would show in such situations. "Thank you." 

"Lord Hart is expecting you."

Lord Hart is expecting him, indeed. The Alpha is waiting for him at the middle landing of a great marble staircase. Eggsy absently notes that Harry is wearing blue superfine in a very similar shade to what he, himself, has on. They are also both wearing red waistcoats, although Eggsy's in a few shades darker than Harry's regimental scarlet. Then Harry smiles and Eggsy forgets about clothes and coincidences.

Harry comes down the stairs and holds out his hands. "You don't know how happy I am that you are here."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

All morning long, Harry tries to school himself into cool detachment, the noble facade that his sire and carrier had insisted was the proper attitude for an Alpha of high rank and renown name.

He fails miserably.

It is a most strange thing. He is not in love with Eggsy Unwin; Harry knows that such finer emotions take time and proximity to develop, but he _likes_ Eggsy and when he'd left the cottage in Richmond yesterday, he'd found himself impatient for the next chance to see him. Of course, Eggsy brings out all the responses a young, unmated Omega typically engenders in a mature, unmated Alpha - the need to protect, to cherish, and of course, to procreate. But those seem to be the least of Harry's feelings.

Harry wants to get to know Eggsy, what he likes and dislikes, what his childhood was like (and Harry knows this will be a difficult subject, based upon the report the Kingsman lawyers had produced in the time between that fateful meeting at Morton Crescent and the "intervention" on the road from Bath to London). He wants to learn all about Eggsy, from Eggsy's own mouth. He wants to know everything and in turn give Eggsy all the parts of himself that he's kept closed off, even from his friends.

He's never felt this way about anyone, Alpha, Beta, or Omega. Perhaps the closest he's come to caring this deeply about someone is Merlin, which is only fitting, since Merlin has been - for thirty years and more - his loyal right hand, the one person he knows he can trust above all others. Yes, Harry cares deeply about all of the members of Kingsman, but the are not present in his life on a daily basis, the way Merlin is. 

And honestly, Harry prefers it that way. After two decades of war and pain and loss, he had deliberately retreated from those relationships. Harry concentrates on running The Black Hart, he provides for the Alphas who have served him with selfless honor, he makes certain that the legacy his grandsire had started continues to grow. Everything else, including his status as an elusive - and most sought-after - member of the Ton, is mere amusement. 

At least until now.

Now, Harry Hart, Marquess Cardoc, _Arlodh_ of Tintagel, formerly Colonel Hart of the Company of Kingsman, has become something of a dithering fool. This morning, he'd had his valet restyle his hair twice, first into something fashionably curly, the result of which had been too ridiculous for words, and then back to his normal, neat coif. He's changed his clothes three times, from black (too formal), to fawn (highly unseasonable), to dark blue, which he thinks is too serious, but his valet suggests pairing it with a bright red waistcoat and a ruby stickpin, which seems to do the trick.

Waiting for the clock to strike the appointed hour, Harry paces his library, constantly checking his coat pocket to make certain he has both the courting bracelet he'd offered to Eggsy yesterday and the next courting gift - the pendant - he'd selected last night. 

He hopes that Eggsy will enjoy selecting his own marital ring.

That thought gives Harry a very pleasant half-hour, imagining Eggsy here, in this very room, with a jeweler and a selection of settings. Harry would bring out his grandsire's collection of rubies and diamonds and the two of them - with input from the jeweler, of course - would design a pair of mating bands. And Harry would set aside the choicest gems for Eggsy's earrings, the ones that will commemorate the birth of their children. Three, Harry thinks. The Hart line isn't known for fertility, and Harry's taken care not to sire any bastards, so he's not sure just how fertile his seed is. And more importantly, he doesn't want to wear Eggsy out with pregnancy after pregnancy. Harry remembers the fate of James Morton all too well.

But that thought is too bleak for such an auspicious day.

The hall clock chimes the three-quarter hour and Harry steps out of the library to find Lucius and remind him that guests are expected. Lucius doesn't quite roll his eyes, but he bows his head and says, "Yes, my lord. I've instructed the staff to prepare the morning salon." Before Harry can ask, Lucius adds, "Refreshments will be served."

"Thank you." Harry heads back upstairs, to his dressing room, feeling that perhaps his waistcoat is way too bright, but he stops when the footman's bell rings and Lucius opens the front door.

_Eggsy is here._

Harry's breath catches in his throat when he lays eyes on his guest. Of course his tailor had followed Harry's instructions and paid Eggsy a visit this morning, but Harry hadn't expected his young Omega to turn out so stunning in his new finery.

Eggsy's smile, however, makes Harry forget everything, including his manners. He skips down the stairs, stopping just inches from Eggsy and reaches out to take the Omega's hands.

His _ungloved_ hands.

Harry pauses, but Eggsy completes the gesture, placing his fingertips just on top of Harry's palms. The contact is like lightening, but all too brief. Merlin, in his role as dragon, clears his throat. Harry steps back and Eggsy blushes.

"Perhaps we should head into the Morning Salon, my lord, Miss Unwin?" Merlin's tone is sly and Harry wants to punch the man in his face.

"Certainly." Harry offers his arm to Eggsy, who places his hand on his coat sleeve, a permissible contact. 

The Morning Salon at Cardoc House is a pleasing room, and once upon a time, had been his grandcarrier's favorite. The house had been built by his grandsire, who had the forethought to purchase the lot that the house backs up on, and he'd had a large, formal garden built for his mate, as had been the custom in the day. The Morning Salon, with its vast windows, overlooks that garden, and even during an October afternoon, it is still filled with sunlight.

Harry, feeling as awkward as a spotty-faced youth, leads Eggsy to a settee and offers him refreshment. "Tea?"

Eggsy nods and Harry is just grateful that his hands aren't shaking when he gives Eggsy the filled tea cup.

He doesn't offer anything to Merlin, that smirking bastard.

"Did you have a pleasant morning?" Harry takes refuge in the most banal of questions.

Again Eggsy nods and takes a sip of tea before finding his voice. "Yes, I did, thank you."

"For what?" And then Harry wants to smack himself. Eggsy is thanking him for his politeness.

But no, he isn't.

"For sending your tailor. That was very kind and considerate."

"Ah. Well, yes. I mean, of course." Oh, lord, Harry feels like he should just take his shoe off and stick his foot in his mouth. "I mean, I was delighted to do that for you. I know it must have been uncomfortable wearing the same clothes for so many days." Harry's certain he's turning bright red, to be mentioning something so intimate.

But Eggsy doesn't notice. "It was. And I didn't want to come here, looking like some poor relation. Your kindness is truly appreciated."

"It's not kindness, not really." They could go back and forth like this all day.

"Oh?"

"It's what any decent person would do."

"After kidnapping their possible bride?" Eggsy bites his lip and looks at Harry from under his lashes. 

"You're never going to let me live that down?"

"No, my lord. I am not." Eggsy's smile is pure mischief.

"But it doesn't bother you anymore?"

"No." Eggsy seems confident of that

Harry is grateful, but curious. "Why not?"

"You were trying to do the right thing, maybe just not in the best way. And maybe if you hadn't offered me a choice, I wouldn't have been so quick to forgive you."

"I thought about what you'd said, how I should have approached your carrier, or perhaps even Lord Morton herself about the situation. I realized, in retrospect, that my decision to waylay you as a means of keeping you from harm was foolish."

Merlin snorts and Eggsy and Harry turn to glare at him. Harry meets Eggsy's eyes and they both grin.

But Harry does want to finish his thought. "Choice is important, especially between – " Harry isn't sure how to put this, but he thinks that Eggsy will appreciate plain speaking. "An Alpha and an Omega of such differing resources. I don't like the idea of you feeling trapped or beholden to me. I can't deny that I've been a little over-exuberant at the idea of joining our lives together – my grandsire would have been delighted by my actions. But I want your happiness, and I don't think that would be possible unless you could make a choice." Harry runs out of steam.

"That's why I wanted to see you today. Having choice is important. I don't know if my decision to accept your suit would have been any different without it, but somehow, it feels more right because I have that choice." Eggsy catches his lower lip between his teeth, and the predator in Harry wants to bite down there, too.

He doesn't, though. Instead, he reaches inside his coat and once again takes out the courting bracelet. "I'd offered this to you yesterday and you asked me to wait. I hope I've waited only as long as you've wanted me to."

Eggsy cheeks turn pink and again, he gives Harry that frustratingly wonderful look from under his eyelashes. "I would be honored to accept it." He holds out his hand; Harry carefully pushes up the coat sleeve and tugs on the white satin ribbon binding the shirt cuffs closed. This is as erotic an act as Harry has ever committed.

He makes the mistake of looking up into Eggsy's eyes and all he can see is desire.

Thankfully, damnably, Merlin is watching and he clears his throat. The rough sound brings both Harry and Eggsy back to a sense of propriety. Harry places the bracelet on Eggsy's wrist, and does his best to ignore his Omega's slight shiver. It takes but a moment to retie Eggsy's ribbons and put his coat sleeve to rights.

"Thank you, Eggsy. You honor me by accepting this gift." He wants to add, _and my suit_ , but it's too soon. Eggsy deserves to be courted, to receive every honor that Harry might bestow upon him.

"Can you tell me about your grandsire? "

"My grandsire?" Harry doesn't know what Eggsy would ask about the old rogue.

"You talk about him with such fondness, everything that matters to you seems to have come from him. The chess set you'd given me yesterday, this bracelet, were his. He seems to have been really important to you."

Harry smiles at the memory of the old pirate. "He was. I loved my parents and they loved me, but my grandsire, Perran Hart, had been the Alpha who gave me my dreams. And," Harry shakes his head, "he inspired me to do what I did to protect you."

"The kidnapping?"

"Yes, exactly. You see, my grandsire had been forced to kidnap my grandcarrier, right out of the church where he was about to be married to another Alpha."

Eggsy is delighted and appalled. "You have got to be kidding me!"

"Not in the least." Harry shakes his head. "I'm being one-hundred percent truthful."

"You have to tell me the whole story." Eggsy leans forward, there are stars in his eyes and Harry thing he can lose himself in that gaze. And in Eggsy's scent. It's dangerously sweet and fresh, a signal that Eggsy is cresting into his heat. If Harry's wise, he'll send Eggsy back to Richmond right now.

But Harry is well aware that he lacks wisdom when it comes to Eggsy Unwin.

"My grandsire, Perran, was the youngest of three Alphas. The Harts had always been at the pinnacle of the local nobility, the family had been the _Arlodh_ of Tintagel for a dozen generations, but my grandsire's sire had made some foolish mistakes, including leasing out the mines to a neighboring family. He'd thought that it was unseemly for such an old and noble family to be in trade. Of course, that decision had left the family on the verge of bankruptcy."

Harry's warming to the tale. "My grandsire, Perren, had been the wildest of the Hart children. He'd like to say that he'd been born to hang. And perhaps, if he'd been a touch less wily, he might have and I wouldn't be here to tell you this story. Perren grew up on the moors, always searching for bits and pieces of Cornish history among the tors and caves. When he was twelve, he found this…" 

Harry takes out the pendant he'd searched for last night. "Which is my second courting gift to you." He gives it to Eggsy and waits impatiently as Eggsy opens the worn velvet bag and spills out the contents.

Eggsy holds it up and the gold disc spins around, catching the light. "It's lovely." Eggsy takes a closer look at it. "And very old."

"Very. Look closely at it, and tell me what you see."

Eggsy follows Harry's instructions. "A deer? And a crown?"

"Good." Harry's actually relieved. "Most people can't see that."

"What does it mean?"

"My grandsire said it was the crest of the last king of Cornwall, but I don't know if there's any truth to that. He liked to say that Cardoc blood ran in his veins."

"Cardoc? Isn't that your title?"

"Yes, but it's a new thing. George the Second gave it to my grandsire for service to the Crown. He was supposed to be the Marquess Austell, but he told King George that he's rather be Cardoc. I don't think he explained the royal connection of that name to His Majesty."

Eggsy chuckles. "Your grandsire was definitely a wily one."

"He gave that to my grandcarrier when they were first courting. Before – "

Harry is interrupted by a knock on the door, and Merlin goes to answer it. It's Lucius and he seems disturbed as he talks to Merlin. Merlin gets that worried expression that always makes Harry think of a wet cat.

Merlin turns to them. "I need to take care of this. I suggest that the two of you take a walk through the halls."

Harry sighs and looks at Eggsy, who's draped the medallion around his neck. The Omega's scent is intoxicating and Merlin's advice is sound. "Would you like to see a bit of my home?"

Eggsy nods, shyly. "I would."

Normally, Harry would offer Eggsy his hand, but bare skin might just be too much at the moment and instead, he waits until Eggsy rises and presents his elbow, instead. He guides Eggsy out of the room and gives him a tour of the public spaces, careful to ensure that a maid or footman is within sight.

But when they turn the corner, the hallway is empty. Harry is about to turn back when Eggsy tugs on his arm.

"I probably shouldn't do this." Eggsy's voice is a little hoarse.

"What, my darling?"

"This." Eggsy pulls on Harry's cravat, pulls him close with surprising strength, and Harry's enveloped in Eggsy's scent.

And then Eggsy kisses him. 

All rational thought leaves Harry's brain. This is his Omega, who he will spend the rest of his life working to make happy. Everything feels new and unknown, as if he's never kissed an Omega before.

_This is your mate's kiss feels like._

The thought rocks Harry to the core. Yes, he's thought of Eggsy as his potential mate, but the touch of Eggsy's lips to his takes potential to real. The mating bite, the biological binding between Alpha and Omega, is, at its root, an act of violence, usually done at the moment of peak pleasure to detract from the pain. It is also a thing of animal instinct, the joining of predator and prey.

But this kiss is Eggsy claiming _him_ , wanting him. Harry revels in the feel of Eggsy's lips on his. They aren't soft and smooth, but a little rough and chapped from all the times that Eggsy has bitten them. It takes an effort for Harry not to devour Eggsy, not to lift him up and carry him off to the nearest bedchamber and consummate their relationship. 

Harry cups his hands around Eggsy's head and holds him carefully. There is only one first kiss and he's determined to make this the best first kiss in the history of the world.

It's only when Eggsy whimpers and tries to reach under Harry's coat, when he's pulling at Harry's cravat, that Harry realizes how far Eggsy's gone, and steps away. Eggsy cries out and Harry steps back, right into a table, knocking a vase to the floor. The table follows a heartbeat later.

Eggsy looks a fair bit wrecked, cheeks flushed and eyes glowing. His scent is even richer and Harry knows that if he doesn't have Eggsy returned to Richmond, his self-control will shatter. But he makes the mistake of touching Eggsy and they are right back to where they'd just been, Eggsy trying to wrap himself around Harry and Harry doing his best not to give in. He pushes Eggsy back against the wall and is about to step away when he hears the clatter of boot heels against marble and takes in the sharp, angry scent of an unfamiliar Alpha.

Harry has but a heartbeat to take in the presence of this Alpha and his brain stutters in recognition - it's Percival's Morton's cub, Roxanne. She's a small one, even in her boots, a few inches shorter than Eggsy, but she has strength as she shoves him hard against the wall and plants him a facer, and then a sucker punch, right to his gut. In his shock, he falls to the floor and she kicks him, as if he's a mad dog.

And for some reason, she calls him a cad. That would be amusing if it wasn't for Eggsy's cry of distress. But before Harry can go to him, Morton's cub intervenes. _Interferes with his mate._

Harry growls and as he gets up, Morton actually has the gall to order him to his feet. Eggsy is sputtering in the background and Merlin, that _traitor_ is laughing.

Harry gets up and as he tries to go to Eggsy, to calm him down and reassure him that all is well, but the interloper - who is rightfully the Earl Morton - does the unthinkable and slaps him in the face with her glove, challenging him to a duel. “Name your second, sir, and the weapon of your choosing. I know not how you have become lost to all righteousness, but now you are called to answer for your crimes. May God have mercy on your soul.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Eggsy can't believe what is happening.  He can't believe Lord Roxy is here, in London, that's she's barged into Harry's house and challenged Harry to a duel. 

Everything has turned to shite. Before he has a chance to talk to Lord Roxy and find out why she's left Morton Crescent and how she's ended up here, in Harry Hart's Mayfair home, Merlin had hustled him off to a bedroom – clearly one reserved for guests – and instructed a young Beta housemaid to watch over him.  To Eggsy's distress, he leaves and locks the door behind him.

Eggsy knows why they've locked him away, he's going into heat; that's why he'd felt bold enough to kiss Harry.  He wants to explain to Harry that it hadn't been heat-lust that made him so daring, but the calm realization that Harry is his rightful mate, that he will never want any other Alpha.

But the locked door and Lord Roxy's ridiculous challenge make that impossible.  Except that Eggsy isn't going to let those things stand in his way.  He tries the door again, bangs on it a few times, and even calls out for Harry, for anyone.  But no one answers.

Frustrated, but not willing to give up, Eggsy turns to the maid.  "Can I have a hairpin?

The maid shakes her head.  "I got me instructions.  To watch over ye and keep ye in here.  Besides, yer not gonna want to go anywhere in yer condition."

"What?"

The maid and sneers at him.  "Ye've stained yer pants, like a girl on her monthlies."

Eggsy looks down and realizes that the maid's correct.  He's leaking slick and it's staining the brand new, buff-colored trousers he's wearing.  How stupid could he be, not to put on a pad when he knew his heat was just days away?  And then the first wave of need hits him and he struggles not to let it show.  If he'd been home at Morton Crescent, he'd be locked in his bedroom, riding out the discomfort and need in private, with just his fingers and his daydreams to carry him through.  

His mum had told him that the heats he'd have before he's mated wouldn't really be that bad, but once he's gotten a mate bite, he'll be in agony if he doesn't share his heat with his mate.  Or with some suitable substitute.  

Eggsy had been skeptical at first, but then he realized what his mum had been saying, it was her way of trying to explain why she'd remarried, why she'd taken Dean Baker to her bed.  With Eggsy's father dead and gone, she'd needed someone to ease the pain of those mateless heats, and a Beta wouldn't be anything more than a decent sized prick.  It had just been unfortunate that Dean had been such a bastard.

Another wave pulses through Eggsy, a deep and aching emptiness that he's never experienced before.  He's both chilled and sweating and desperately wants to get out of his clothes and into the bed.  But he's not doing that, here.  Not with the maid in the room, and not in Harry's house.  And certainly not until he can clear up this mess where Roxy thinks that Harry's compromised his honor. 

After checking the dresser and finding nothing that he might be able to use to pick the lock, Eggsy stares at the door as if he could will it open with the force of his mind.

The maid starts humming and the sound grates on his nerves.  He wants to slap the girl, but that would be beyond acceptable.  Instead, Eggsy remembers that he's trying to be a gentleman and asks, "Would you mind?"

"Mind wot?"

"Not humming."  

The maid huffs.  "Look, I don't wanna be stuck here wif you, you creepy, stinky Omega.  But I gots to do me job.  Mister Merlin tells me to stay, I stay. And if I wants to hum, I'll hum and there ain't nuffin' you could do about it."

Eggsy grinds out, "Mister Merlin didn't tell you to annoy me, did he?"  It's all Eggsy can do not to double over in pain. 

Before the maid can answer, the door opens and Eggsy looks up in relief.  Merlin's there, but behind him is a stranger, a female Beta dressed in black.  There's another beta woman behind them, but Eggsy can't see her face.

"Miss Unwin, this is Doctor Cronin.  She will be examining ye."

"Doctor?  What do I need a doctor for?  An examination?"  Eggsy feels the edge of panic start to push at him.

"Lord Morton insists on it.  She is concerned about yer …well-being."  Merlin grimaces.

"My what?"  Eggsy blinks and suddenly he understands.  "She thinks my virtue's been compromised?  Didn't you tell her about the knife?  About Harry's proposal?"

Merlin doesn’t answer Eggsy's questions.  "Eggsy, this is just a formality.  Let Doctor Cronin look at ye and everyone will be satisfied."

"Don't I have a choice in the matter?"

Merlin shakes his head.  "Nay, kitling.  I'm afraid not."

Eggsy feels like he wants to cry.  "Isn't my word good enough?  What about your word?  You've been present for every moment I've been with Harry."

"It's not about trust at this point, honor must be served."  Merlin gestures for the doctor to enter.  "Just cooperate and we'll get everything straightened out."  Merlin gives the doctor the key and leaves.  To Eggsy's utter dismay, the nasty little maid stays behind.  

"Take off your clothes and lie on the bed."  The doctor's words are cold, commanding.

"Excuse me?"

"I've been practicing medicine longer than you've been alive, and this is the first time that I've been made aware that deafness is one of the side effects of an Omega heat."  Doctor Cronin looks at him like a housewife might look at a mouse found in the flour.  "Or perhaps, you are simply too stupid to follow a simple command."

The maid snickers.

"I ain't stupid.  Stupid would be taking off my clothes for some slag who calls herself a doctor."  Eggsy hopes the insult makes the woman stalk out.

But it doesn't.  "If you're not going to cooperate of your own free will, we'll have to do this the hard way."  The doctor reaches into her case and pulls out a vial.

"Whatever that is, I'm not taking it."

"You don't have a choice in the matter, Omega."

"You can't make me."  Eggsy clenches his fists.  He's fought off bigger dogs than this Beta.  Except he hadn't been in heat when he'd needed to punch Poodle.  The heat cramps are so strong that he doubles over and hears the doctor tell her assistant and the maid to hold him down.  Eggsy fights them the best he can, but the two of them are too much in this condition.  He tries to avoid Doctor Cronin's hand, thrashing his head back and forth.

"You are really going to be difficult and stupid, aren't you."

"Fuck off, you crazy bitch."

The doctor pulls his hair, yanks it hard and the pain is searing.  In his shock, Eggsy opens his mouth and the contents of the vial is dumped down his throat.  He coughs against the horrible bitterness but the doctor pinches his nose until he swallows.  

Eggsy gags and nearly vomits.  The nausea doesn't recede, but he's overtaken by a terrible lassitude.  He knows that people have their hands on him, that they are removing his coat and trousers and shirt, but he can do nothing to stop them.

He tries to fight, to keep his legs closed but the drug has taken away his will.  All Eggsy can do is cry as the doctor's fingers probe him.  He thinks he screams as she tries to breach his hymen, but the sharp pain recedes as she removes her fingers.  The torment isn't over yet.  Doctor Cronin probes at his anus and then manipulates his cock and testicles, making a comment about how useless they are.  The maid snickers.

Eggsy gives up trying to resist as the doctor manipulates the scent gland at the base of his neck, squeezing and pressing at it.  At least she doesn't touch the pendant that's still hanging around Eggsy's neck.

Finally, it's over and Eggsy hears the doctor order her assistant and her maid to get him dressed again.

At some point, he's sitting up and the room is spinning, and the nausea returns with full force.  Eggsy vomits, emptying his stomach over Doctor Cronin's dress.  She screeches and makes to slap him, but something stops her.  Instead, she takes the key Merlin gave her and lets herself out of the room.  The maid leaves, too.

The doctor's assistant looks at him with tear-filled eyes.  "I'm sorry about this.  Sorry about what happened to you. "

With some of the drug out of Eggsy's system, his head feels clearer and his limbs start to cooperate.  "I want to go home."

"Where's home."

"Richmond, the house in Richmond.  I want to go there and be left alone."

The girl nods.  "I'll tell them that, make sure they take you there."

Eggsy reaches out and grasps the girl's wrist.  "Don't tell them what that bitch did to me, please?"  He feel a hot flush of shame at the memory of Doctor Cronin's invasive fingers.

"No, I won't, but if you do want me to tell the truth, I will. She does this all the time, especially to Omegas like you. She tells people that the drugging is the Omega's idea, not hers, because they're nervous and fragile and need something to calm them down. But it's not true.  She like making Omegas cry.  She hates 'em."

Eggsy nods and files away this information.  He'll get his retribution someday.  

"I'm gonna go get you something to drink, but I'm not gonna lock the door or anything.  Please say here?"

"I will."  The girl leaves and Eggsy doesn't have the energy to check to see that she'd truly left the door unlocked.  He sits quietly for a moment and tries to fix his clothes.  His fumbles with the buttons on waistcoat - it's a tight-fitting garment, but he manages to get the buttons into their holes.  His shirt sleeves are a different story.  There's no way he can manage the complex weaving of ribbons at the cuffs.  

At least his courting bracelet hadn't been touched, and Eggsy stares at it, wondering what Harry's doing, how he's feeling. If Harry's angry at him for bringing such shame into his house.  For kissing him.  For being the reason why Lord Roxy challenged Harry to a duel.

The thought of that challenge brings back Eggsy's nausea and he breathes through his open mouth until it passes.

There's a light tap on the door and he says, "Come in."

It's the girl with a tray holding a pitcher of water and a glass, and behind her is Merlin. 

"Ye all right, kitling?"

Eggsy doesn't answer, focusing instead on the water the girl is pouring into the glass.  He hadn't realized until this very moment how thirsty he'd become.  He sips slowly, not wanting to risk another episode of nausea.  

Finally, thirst satisfied, he puts the glass down and stares at Merlin.  "Honor satisfied?"

Merlin flushes and then turns pale.  "It had to be done, Eggsy."

"No, it didn't.  You and I both know exactly what transpired.  Lord - "  Eggsy finds he can't use the familiar "Roxy" anymore.  "Morton made a demand and without consulting me, without giving me the benefit of a simple conversation, she decided that my word can't be trusted."  Eggsy's head is spinning and he doesn't even know how he's managing to have this conversation.

Merlin has an answer for that, of course.  "I think Lord Morton feared you'd been coerced by Harry, that you'd be too afraid to admit the truth."

"I want to go to Richmond, I want to be left alone.  My heat will soon crest again in a couple of hours and I want my privacy."  Eggsy finds he no longer has any reticence about his body.  Maybe it's the lingering effects of the drug, or the memory of the doctor's violation.

"Eggsy, you should know that Lord Morton has demanded that the doctor remain at Morton Crescent for the duration."

That is the last straw, and Eggsy cries out, "Lord Morton's demands can be damned.  Lord Morton can be damned."  

"Kitling?" _Now_ Merlin looks concerned.

"I'll not have that foul piece that calls herself a doctor anywhere near me.  Never again.  And if Lord Hart insists upon that, too, well they can both hang."  Eggsy wraps his arms around his belly.  He's not going to throw up and he's not going to cry.

"Eggsy, what happened."  Merlin's voice is soft and even through his misery, Eggsy can hear the worry.

"No, not now.  Just, please, don't bring that doctor to Richmond.  If Lord Morton doesn't trust you to look out for me, she can go rot."

"Very well."  Merlin looks over at the girl, who looks at Eggsy.  

Eggsy shakes his head and hopes she'll keep her mouth shut.  She does.

"May I fix your attire, Miss Unwin?"  Merlin retreats into formality and Eggsy is grateful for the emotional distance that creates.  It takes a matter of moments to tie the ribbons on his shirt cuffs and redo Eggsy's cravat.  Lastly, Merlin helps him into his coat and they leave this accursed bedroom.

Nothing is going to make the journey home comfortable, not when Eggsy's trousers are damp with his slick.  But at least the long tail of the coat hide the staining as Merlin quickly leads him through the back staircases to a waiting carriage.

Unlike the journey from Richmond just a few hours ago, this trip is conducted in silence, and Eggsy is grateful.  He's still angry at Merlin.

But Merlin can't keep his mouth shut.  "Eggsy, what happened with the doctor?"

Eggsy stares out into the darkness and debates answering.  He doesn't know if it wants to say anything.  His head is pounding and he can feel his heat start to crest again.  A part of him wants to tell Merlin what had happened, what the price of an Alpha's honor cost him.  If he tells Merlin, will Merlin tell Harry?  What will happen then?  Will Harry blame him?  Will he thing Eggsy's spoiled goods now?  Impure?  Will he rescind his courtship?  

"It's done, Merlin.  Nothing anyone does will make this right."  

"Don't be so certain of that."

Eggsy keeps watching the darkness.

"Tell me, please."

He finally looks at the Beta, his face so earnest in the flickering lamp light.  "You'll just keep pushing until I do, won't you?"

"Aye.  I'm sorry, Eggsy, but I need to know."

"Why?"

"Because I fear we've made a terrible mistake.  _I've_ made a terrible mistake.  I want to fix it."

"If I tell you, you can't tell Harry."

"Ye can't ties my hands like that, Eggsy.  I own Harry everything.  He has my loyalty first and foremost."

Eggsy's not surprised by that.  Merlin might like him, might speak up for him and defend him, but he's still Harry's friend.  But that doesn't mean Eggsy can't take a stand. "You have a choice, Merlin.  Which is more than you gave me."

Merlin sighs.  "I'm sorry, Eggsy.  I'm sorry for whatever happened to ye.  And more than that, I'm sorry for not speaking up for ye.  Ye're right, I should have found a way to convince Lord Morton that the doctor's examination was unnecessary.  Or if I couldn't do that, at least let the two of ye talk, first. "

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I – "  Merlin purses his lips.  "Because I didn't much care for Harry's plan to kidnap ye, and even though you made yer own displeasure clear, when Lord Morton burst in and knocked Harry on his arse, I thought it was about time that Harry got some sense knocked into him.  I had been too fucking amused to remember what yer stake is in all of this."

Eggsy's weary, too sick at heart to keep hiding the truth.  "If you tell Harry, he might kill you.  He might kill Lord Morton."  As angry as he is at Lord Roxy, he doesn't want her dead, except...   "Ah, but I'm forgetting, he's going to do his best to kill her anyway."

Shocked, Merlin whispers, "What did that damn doctor do to ye?"

Eggsy tells him, in the baldest, plainest words he has.

"I'll kill her."

Eggsy's startled?  "Who, Lord Morton?"

"No, that sorry excuse for a doctor.  And the maid.  They're as good as dead, Eggsy.  Ye have my word on that."

Eggsy's too tired to care.  "Just, please – don't tell Harry."

"No, kitling, I won't."

The darkness and the swaying carriage are soothing, but Eggsy wants to be home, in bed.  He wants to sleep and forget about this terrible day.  But his body isn't going to let him.

Finally, the carriage comes to a halt and Eggsy dimly realizes that he's home.  Or at least the Richmond cottage, which seems have become his home.

"Can I help ye?  Do ye want me to carry ye?"

"No, I'll make it."  There's a footman, who offers a helping hand.  Eggsy doesn't really want to touch anyone, even another Omega, but he has to, otherwise, he'll end up flat on his face.  Soon enough, he's inside the cottage and Mistress Olwyn is clucking softly and helping him upstairs.  

"Would you like a bath, Miss Unwin?"

As good as that sounds, Eggsy declines.  Too much effort and time.  "Tomorrow, maybe."

Mistress Olwyn shoos out the maid who'd followed them with a covered tray.  "At least let me help you out of your clothes."

"They're ruined."

"Don't worry about it. It's nothing that can't be cleaned."

Mistress Olwyn's voice reminds him a bit of his mum, soft and low and soothing.  He lets her help him out of the tight coat, she undoes the ribbons on his cuffs and kneels to take off his shoes and hose.  "Do you need help with the rest?"

"No, thank you."

"There's a light meal if you want, and if you need anything else, please ring."

"I just want to be left alone."  Eggsy is beginning to sweat as his heat starts to crest hard.  

Mistress Olwyn understands.  "Rest well, you won't be disturbed.  You have my word on that."

As soon as she leaves, Eggsy checks that the key is where he left it and he locks the door.

His hands are shaking as he pulls off his shirt and undoes his trousers.  They fall into a messy pile at his feet and Eggsy all but rips off his underpants.

The bed is welcoming, but it's too empty.  His body is screaming for completion and for the first time in his life, there is someone that Eggsy knows should be here with him, easing the pain and filling him with pure pleasure and joy.

He needs Harry. But Harry may never want him, not after this.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's been a long time since Merlin's been consumed by such self-loathing rage. Maybe when he'd been fifteen and trying to feed his family and he'd attacked the new lord's overseer and earned a one-way ticket to Canada. Back then, he'd hated himself for losing control and putting his family in jeopardy.

Today, he'd kept his control and still put someone right in harm's way.

He paces the front parlor and it seems like years since he'd introduced Eggsy to Harry, since he's watch with such pride and amusement as Harry awkwardly courted Eggsy and Eggsy fearlessly called him to task for his outrageous actions. But that was only yesterday afternoon.

Why didn't he speak up? Why did he just allow this to happen?

The answer is all too clear. He'd become so invested in seeing Harry taken down a peg, making him realize that he can't move people around like pieces on a chess board, no matter how good his intentions are. Somehow, Merlin had lost sight of the only thing that matters - Harry, who he has loved like a brother and worshipped like a god for nearly thirty years. He'd told Eggsy that his first loyalty was to Harry, but today, he's been anything but loyal.

He can't justify why he let Roxanne Morton into the house and lead her to Harry, at least not without discerning her intentions. Why didn't he stop the silly cub before she set them all on this terrible path? 

And worst of all, why didn't he stand up for Eggsy instead of letting him get abused by that doctor?

"Master Merlin?" Mistress Olwyn is hovering in the door way. 

Merlin has one thought on his mind. "How is he?"

"I don't know." Mistress Olwyn shakes her head, clearly concerned.

"What does that mean?" 

"Miss Unwin seems upset, disoriented, but not in a way that would be caused by his heat. Did something happen?"

Merlin nods. "I was derelict in my duty to him."

Mistress Olwyn looks horrified. "Please don't tell me that Lord Hart did something untoward him?"

"No, no - that's not what happened at all. But I cannot say anything more about it."

She nods. "All right. I'll keep an ear out for him, and if he rings, I'll attend on him myself."

"Thank ye." Merlin knows he can trust Mistress Olwyn with Eggsy.

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

"Nay, I'm fine." That is an utter lie, Merlin is far from fine.

"Then I'll leave you."

Merlin's about to bid Mistress Olwyn good night, then remembers something. "There's a housemaid, a young Beta girl, about twenty, with dark curly hair and a chubby face. She's between-stairs staff, I believe. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Yes, that's Della. Not a particularly nice girl, but she's Cook's niece. I've been trying to move her out for a while, but Cook's insistent that she stays."

Merlin snaps, "Cook bedamned. The girl goes, and goes without a reference. If she stays, I will not guarantee that she'll live to the end of the week."

Mistress Olwyn's eyes go wide. "I'm not going to ask what that girl did, but if she's raised such ire in you, she needs to be turned out. And if Cook walks?"

"Let him."

"Understood, sir. There's a fine young Omega who's been producing the most delightful dishes for the household staff. I've brought him here to cook for Miss Unwin. If Cook walks, he'll go back to the house and take over."

Merlin nods. At this moment, he couldn't care less about the below-stairs staff.

"Will there be anything else? I'll pen a letter to Mister Lucius and he will take care of it."

"No, and thank you." Merlin at least remembers his manners.

This time, Mistress Olwyn gets out the door.

There's something nagging at Merlin, something that he's missing from this picture. 

The doctor. Where did that doctor come from?

She isn't Harry's physician. The few times that Harry's needed a doctor in his civilian life, he'd sent for one of their old military acquaintances, a medico who'd been attached to Kingsman when the Company had been stationed on the Peninsula. That wily old Alpha would have no clue what to do with an Omega, let alone one who was going into heat.

Did Lucius, who'd sent a footman to fetch Doctor Cronin, recommend her? No, Merlin is certain that the butler wouldn't have such connections, either. Lucius is Beta, as is the man's wife and both of their children.

Then who?

Merlin scrubs at his pate, as if he could pull the information from his skin. Is it possible that Lord Morton herself selected the physician? It doesn't seem likely for a country-raised cub to have those connections. 

Except that Roxanne Morton has had at least one London season. Maybe their paths had crossed then?

Merlin will have his answers and he'll have them sooner than later. He'll hunt Morton down in the morning, not willing to leave Eggsy alone tonight. Morton is likely back at her rooms at the boarding house that she'd mentioned - the same one that Percival had favored when he got leave to visit James. 

Merlin spies the long blade that he's lent to Eggsy not so many days ago as means of self-defense. The brave kitling had pulled it on Harry and Harry, once he'd gotten over his shock, had seemed delighted by his intended's initiative. Yesterday afternoon, on the ride back to Mayfair, Harry had, however, taken Merlin to task for giving away the blade upon which he'd sworn a blood oath.

Merlin had promised to reclaim the weapon, and now he does. 

If Lord Morton isn't forthcoming about her connection to Doctor Cronin, she might not live to become a Kingsman, let alone face Harry in a duel.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. 
> 
> My apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, not only did real life events make writing difficult, this chapter needed to cover a lot of ground - providing backstory for Harry and Merlin and Kingsman, as well the immediate aftermath of Lord Roxy's arrival at Harry's Mayfair home, hence the length (about 13k) of the chapter.
> 
> Our goal is to have a chapter a week up, on Sundays. Please keep reading! Your comments and feedback is most appreciated.


	12. The Doctor

Roxy wakens between clean linens, a soft pillow, a warm counterpane. They’re at stark odds to her cotton-filled mouth and pounding head. But she when opens her eyes and beholds the familiar, tidy lines of the Blue Room, she forgets her body for a moment in the comforting delusion of believing yesterday’s events all to be the result of a dream-addled mind.

The delusion doesn’t last. There, on the wash-stand, lies the reminder. Last night Roxy had emptied her pockets there, as is her custom. Next to her birth-stone she had put the small medallion she had received yesterday, as token of her candidacy for Kingsman knighthood.

She sits up slowly and looks at those two tokens there side-by-side. Past and present. And which points towards her future?

Outside Roxy’s door, the sound of footsteps going by rouses her from her reverie. A glance at her pocket-watch shows that the breakfast-hour is nearly gone. Mistress Jeanne won’t turn Roxy out hungry if she misses the meal, but the thought of food sets her stomach to rumbling. Yesterday’s running around and revelations atop revelations had left Roxy with little time or appetite to eat; today she is reminded that her body needs fuel. So up she gets, and into her clothes, still tying her cravat deftly as she enters the breakfast-room. A maid is lifting covers to replenish the offerings, and Roxy smiles at the smells that waft out.

And stops dead.

“A very good morning to you!” Tristan calls from across the table. She’s reclined in a leisurely manner, a newspaper spread out before a plate holding only crumbs. “We were beginning to think you’d never waken.”

“Who’s this we?” Bedivere grumbles from next to her. He’s still working on several rashers of bacon, though his coffee cup seems to hold more fascination. “I told you she’d be late to rise after last night. Percival was never an early riser neither.”

“Ah, well.” Tristan shrugs. She waves at the seat opposite her. “Don’t be shy on our account, now. Eat up. You’ll need it.”

“Why will I need it?” Roxy revises her question. “Why are you _here_?”

Bedivere raises his eyebrows. A moment later, having finished refreshing the breakfast-table’s provisions, the maid leaves.

“Is anyone else staying with you?” Tristan inquires.

“No,” Roxy says. “This isn’t a typical lodging-house – I’ve never been here at the same time as anyone else. Mistress Jeanne is selective about her clientele.”

Bedivere smiles. “We know.”

“Of course you do.” Roxy sighs. She ought to have known. A discreet, selective lodging-house in a quiet part of London, where her carrier had stayed when James hadn’t wanted anyone to know his business? Of _course_ Kingsman has a hand in it.

Which prompts another question. Roxy doesn’t ask it immediately, choosing instead to fill her plate with eggs, kippers, toast – all favorites, thoughtfully provided – and draw a cup of coffee from the carafe. From the way Tristan and Bedivere both watch her as she sits neatly and spreads her napkin on her lap, they’re not fooled by her seeming nonchalance.

“So my carrier,” Roxy says, after adding cream and sipping her coffee appreciatively. “He was also involved with your organization.”

“”Twas in his blood,” Bedivere says. “Sire, sibling, mate – ”

“And soon, cub,” Tristan murmurs.

“ – all knights.”

“But not James himself,” Roxy says.

“No carrier-knights,” Bedivere says.

“Kingsman started as an intelligence gathering organization for the British Army,” Tristan explains.

“So what did he do?”

“Lots of ways to gather intelligence without being a knight, young Morton.”

Roxy blinks.

“You’ll give her the wrong idea,” Bedivere says to Tristan, mock-scoldingly.

“She’s smarter than that,” Tristan replies in kind.

Roxy decides to fill her mouth with eggs instead of involving herself in that back and forth. Bedivere and Tristan beam at her.

“Regardless, we’re not here to fill your head with tales,” Bedivere says. “We’re here to evaluate your combat skills.”

Roxy raises an eyebrow.

“Knights must be able to defend, not only themselves, but the innocents under their protection,” Tristan says. “Sometimes that defense takes a rather… aggressive stand.”

“The best defense being a good offense?”

“Something like that.”

“Then there’s the part where we’d like to be sure you’re not going to freeze like a steer on the dueling ground,” Bedivere says bluntly.

Tristan waves her hand lazily, even as Roxy stiffens. Says, “If she can pass the trials, she’ll have no problems with Harry. If she can’t, well… she’ll have no problems with Harry!” She grins.

“Trials?” Roxy puts down her fork. “Of the physical variety?”

“Becoming a knight takes a bit more than a nomination and a birthright claim,” Bedivere says. His soft voice isn’t any different than it has been all morning, but something makes Roxy shiver, hearing menace.

“We’re limited in what we can tell you in advance,” Tristan says. “But as your sponsors, we have certain responsibilities of our own to fulfil.”

“It would reflect poorly on us if you died during your presentation,” Bedivere says.

Roxy stares. She doesn’t – quite – let her jaw hang open like an unschooled urchin. But –

“No one has ever died during their presentation,” Tristan says. She clearly means this to be comforting. The way Bedivere shoots her a sideways look, opens his mouth, and then closes it again, somewhat undermines this.

 “How many gravely wounded?” Roxy asks.

Tristan and Bedivere laugh, as if Roxy has told a great joke. “Kingsman knows some excellent doctors,” Tristan says.

“Indeed they do,” a third voice says. Roxy jumps and spins around in her chair. Standing in the doorway behind her is Merlin, looming, with a dark look on his face. His accent is thicker than the last time they’d spoken. “Which is what I want to talk to ye about.”

“Good morning, Merlin,” Tristan says cheerfully. “Is our beloved King in a pet this morning? No call for you share it around, if so.”

“I haven’t seen Harry since I left with Miss Unwin yesterday. And it’s going to stay that way until Lord Morton and I have a conversation.” The way Merlin says _conversation_ is sinister. Roxy blinks, and both Tristan and Bedivere straighten in their chairs.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to kick up about her candidacy.” Tristan sounds incredulous. “She’s got the blood claim true enough, and the circumstances – ”

“I am not here to discuss her candidacy.”

“If this is about the challenge, forget it,” Bedivere says. He doesn’t sound incredulous; he sounds angry. “I’d have challenged Harry myself in her shoes.”

“You were half a breath away from challenging Harry in your own shoes,” Tristan mutters.

“And no more than he deserved,” Bedivere says hotly. “If Miss Unwin hadn’t said – ”

Merlin holds up a hand. “I am not here to discuss the challenge, either,” he says. “I am here to discuss doctors.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Roxy shoots to her feet, the grease from the kippers going sour in the back of her throat. “Hart did ruin Eggsy,” she cries. “Why did you wait this long to tell me?”

“He did _what_?” Bedivere cries. He’s on his feet likewise. Tristan joins him, but for the sake of putting a restraining hand on her fellow knight’s arm.

“Perhaps it was invited,” Tristan says, though she sounds dubious. “He offered courtship…”

“Harry didn’t do a thing. And ye two had better get yer heads on straight before I knock them together for you!” Merlin’s glare is baleful, and it transfers to Roxy without losing an ounce of menace. “You called the doctor for Miss Unwin last night.”

“That’s right,” Roxy says. She wants to say more, to ask more about what the doctor had found, but Merlin keeps on talking.

“Where did you get her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ye’ve been to London before, what, half a dozen times? Besides yer Season. How would ye know who to call to attend to an Omega?”

Roxy’s eyes widen at the implication. “I assure you I did not impose myself on any of the ladies I courted,” she says furiously. “And if you were a gentleman, sir – ”

“Put a sock in it,” Merlin snaps. “I’m not interested in yer posturing. I heard ye speak to the footman. Ye didn’t just ask for the nearest gynecologist. Ye asked for Doctor Cronin in particular. Her offices aren’t even near Mayfair!”

“And?”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why,” Merlin says with awful calm, “did ye request Doctor Cronin in particular?”

Roxy shares a quick look with Tristan and Bedivere. By their expressions, she can tell that they understand this line of questioning no more than Roxy does. But the situation feels fraught, and Roxy has no actual interest in getting into a second duel in as many days, despite the insults Merlin has been casually throwing around: she’s much more forgiving of her own honor than she is of those under her care. So she says, carefully, answering the question she thinks Merlin is really asking: “Because I wished for Miss Unwin to have the best care possible.” 

Despite Roxy’s self-restraint, Merlin turns as red with fury as if he’s a tea-kettle about to explode. “And what on God’s green earth made ye think Doctor Cronin was the best?”

Roxy blinks again. Something is going on here that she doesn’t understand. “Because,” she says simply. “Doctor Cronin was _my_ carrier’s personal doctor.”

There’s a moment of silence. Merlin stares. Roxy stares back, watching in fascination as the red creeps north from Merlin’s forehead.

“Do ye mean to tell me that James Morton actually used that woman’s services? More than once?”

Roxy draws a calming breath. “I think you will understand when I say that that is a personal matter,” she says, with as much dignity as she can manage.

Merlin’s mouth opens and closes, and for a moment Roxy thinks he might actually, literally explode – he’s so red now, all over his neck and face and bald scalp, that she wouldn’t be surprised if his head just – popped, like an overripe watermelon. But then Merlin lets out a long, slow breath, and fumbles his way into a seat at the table.

“I’m afraid I have to insist, lad,” he says. His voice is quieter now, but there’s still an undercurrent of menace. “Miss Unwin tell me he was indeed violated, but not by Harry. He accuses Doctor Cronin herself of the offense.”

Bedivere snarls. Tristan has both arms around him now. Roxy hardly notices. She sinks into a chair herself, staring at Merlin.

“You do not have the look of a liar,” she says, “but I hardly know how to credit it.”

“Tell me why ye called Doctor Cronin.”

“My carrier had – trouble,” Roxy says with difficulty. This is an old wound, and never quite healed, but – “He could conceive, but the pregnancies never lasted. I was the only one who, who – after the third failure, our local doctor said he could do nothing more. He suggested James try London.”

She remembers the visit, the first time she herself had ever made the journey: James had gone by himself, before, to visit Percival on leave, leaving Roxy behind in the care of her nursemaid. She’d been out of the nursery for this journey but not yet ready for school, that awkward in-between time in a young cub’s life, and the trip had at first seemed like a great adventure. It had been sunny that first day in London. Roxy hadn’t yet known how rare sun would be in London. She’d drank in the sight of all those buildings and all those people like it had been a page from her story-books come to life. Like Alā ad-Dīn staring around at the wonders in the cave, not yet realizing he’d been caught in a trap with no means of escape.

Roxy shakes off the memory. “James saw two or three others first, but all agreed that Doctor Cronin was the best for – ailments of that sort. Cronin attended him regularly for the rest of his life. It’s thanks to her that James’ last pregnancy progressed as far as it did, though…” she trails off. They all must know the end of the story anyway.

Merlin swallows hard. “And yer carrier never accused her of anything?”

“Not to my ears,” Roxy says quietly. She wishes she could doubt that James might have kept such a thing from her. She wishes she could doubt that James might have been desperate enough for children to keep such a thing from everyone.

There’s another silence. Heavier, this time. But more still. The coiled tension of imminent violence is gone from the air. In its place grows another threat, more patient, but no less deadly.

“To be certain that I understand.” Roxy has to stop for a moment and collect herself. “You are telling me that Doctor Cronin violated Miss Unwin. And that there is reason to think she may have done the same to other patients. Including, perhaps, my carrier.”

“James’ title may have protected him. I dinna know.” Merlin shakes his head. “But aye. This wasn’t Cronin’s first time taking what someone didn’t want to give.”

Roxy nods. She stands up again, bowing slightly. “I am much obliged to you for this information.” Her voice sounds distant to herself. “If you will excuse me, I seem to have a pressing engagement with the Doctor.”

“I claim the right to join ye,” Merlin says, not forcefully, but as one who will not be moved. “Harry – Marquess Cardoc – knows nothing about this yet. But I was to notify ye: Miss Unwin has accepted a courting bracelet from him. I will represent Cardoc’s interests.”

“Do you intend to interfere?”

“Nay, lad. I’ll confine myself to witnessing.” The flash of his teeth is not a smile. “Presuming ye do what I consider to be a sufficient job.”

“We will come as well.” Tristan is the one to speak; Bedivere no longer seems to require active restraint, but he is still visibly tense, holding himself in check. “As your sponsors, we’re generally supposed to stick with you. Besides.” Tristan _does_ grin, quick and fierce. “We were just talking about evaluating your physical skills.”

Merlin reaches to his belt and produces something: a knife. “I’m certain ye have your own implements,” he says. “But ye may find poetic justice in using this. It’s one of a set. Harry gave me this one, and I gave it to Eggsy, who used it to threaten Harry.”

Roxy takes the blade, studying it. “Eggsy might appreciate something in its place,” she suggests, still distant. “An ear, do you think?”

“Why think so small?” That’s Bedivere, for the first time since Merlin’s bombshell, sounding almost feral. “Bring him the whole head.”

“Or whichever part committed the offense,” Tristan suggests.

“Plenty of time to decide that while the doctor’s screaming.”

“An excellent thought,” Roxy agrees. She gathers up the other occupants of the room with a glance and begins moving towards the door. “Shall we, gentleman?”

* * *

At first Merlin leads. He has already informed himself of the necessary particulars of Doctor Cronin’s practice, including where the not-so-good doctor is to be found. Tristan and Bedivere fall into step behind him as if they follow him into battle every day of the week – a thought perhaps not so far past reality as might seem at first glance, if the stories they begin to share are any guide.

“Why are you telling me these?” Roxy asks, as they turn yet another corner and Bedivere begins yet another tale. No one has suggested hiring a conveyance, never mind dispatching a servant to bring them one of the carriages that Earl Aberlundy and Baron Dunwell doubtless have at their command. Roxy had held her tongue at first, not wishing to appear ignorant, and as the stories had begun she had swiftly come to understand why. The talk of violence over the breakfast table had been no exaggeration, no Alphaic posturing. Nor had the offer of the knife. All three are in deadly earnest and intend violence to be done this day. Not the clean violence of a duel, either. Murder is in the air.

Murder, too, is in the stories. Kingsman had been formed in the wars – she remembers that; it had been one of the first things she’d learned about it. One of the first things that matters, anyway. The shares and the corporation and the gambling hell – those aren’t the core of Kingsman. The warfare is.

It had also been said that their primary task is, or had been, intelligence gathering. Roxy now learns that she has formed a rather inaccurate impression of what this comprises. She had envisioned a great deal of sneaking around, overhearing conversations, and copying documents. Those things had apparently also happened, but only, it seems, as an amusing diversion in between murders.

“They’re telling ye this so ye understand,” Merlin says, an uncomfortable echo of Roxy’s own thoughts. “If ye’d come to Kingsman in the normal way, ye’d already know what ye were in for. But since ye hadn’t a clue, it’s time ye learned, and fast.”

“A Kingsman follows the orders of the King,” Tristan says. “Whatever they may be.”

Roxy notices that Tristan does not specify whether they mean the Prince Regent, or a certain Marquess Cardoc. She notes likewise that she herself is reluctant to ask for clarification.

Instead she says, “Even when he’s being an idiot?”

“Especially when he’s being an idiot,” Tristan sighs.

“Half the time his idiocy is brilliance in disguise,” Bedivere says, with the tone of one who will be just even though it pains him.

“And the other half of the time, we yell at him afterwards,” Merlin mutters.

“He’s mostly learned not to run into covering fire at this point,” Tristan says.

“Battle is battle,” Bedivere says with finality. “There is no room for argument. Afterwards there can be debate. Not in the heat of the moment.”

“Something to keep in mind for your trials,” Tristan says.

“How do you mean?”

“Careful,” Merlin says. “Ye can’t tell her more than any other candidate, whatever Percival left out.”

Tristan shrugs. “During your trials you will be given orders to follow. Objectives to complete. Success is the best outcome, but failure is not – necessarily – fatal to your candidacy. Hesitance, however, is.”

Roxy’s steps slow. “Supposing the orders are unjust?” she demands.

A carriage trundles down the street, blocking their latest crossing; perforce, all stop. Tristan turns to face Roxy. “If you cannot trust that the orders you receive will be just, you have no business in our corps,” she says bluntly. “If you hesitate or refuse during your trials, you will fail. And far better that you fail now than you get yourself or someone else killed later.”

“I am accustomed to relying on myself.” She intends it to be an explanation; it sounds like an excuse.

“Now, is that because ye want to or because ye’ve always had to?” Merlin looks at Roxy far too knowingly.

The carriage clears the intersection. Merlin resumes his march forward, not waiting for an answer.

As they get closer, their order changes. Roxy begins to recognize the area, certain landmarks blurring into focus from her long-ago memories. She’s been here before. She _remembers_.

“There,” she says, pointing to a particular townhouse. She knows it to be the surgery of Doctor Cronin.

Merlin nods. “Aye.” He steps to the side. “It’s yer show, lad. At least for now. Go on.”

Roxy takes a moment to center herself. Then she dons a deliberately haughty air, strides to the door, and throws it open. Behind her she hears Tristan chuckle. Roxy lets that roll off her back. This is no laughing matter.

“My – my Lord?” A figure scrambles into view – the assistant Roxy recalls seeing at Hart’s townhouse. The girl clearly recalls Roxy, too; she falls back a step, and her hands fly to her throat. “Lord Morton!”

“I will see Doctor Cronin now,” Roxy announces.

The girl’s mouth opens and closes. At one point she seems to think of protesting. Roxy raises an eyebrow. Trembling, the assistant points to the staircase. Roxy moves towards it.

“My Lord,” she falters.

Roxy pauses and turns toward her, eyebrow still raised.

The assistant shivers. “I – if there’s anything I can do for Miss Unwin – I – ”

Tristan, on Roxy’s heels, nods at her. “If your services are required you will be notified,” she says coolly. “Now, perhaps you have an important errand you need to run? Somewhere where many people will see you. Perhaps you have been there all morning.”

Something flashes in the air. It’s a coin, glinting gold as Bedivere tosses it to the girl. She catches it, staring dumbly.

“Perhaps you’ll need to stay out for the rest of the day,” Bedivere suggests. “Perhaps you don’t recall any visitors coming before you left.”

The girl nods dazedly. Merlin, in the doorway, steps aside to let her pass. She pauses once more, but then shakes her head, catches up her skirts, and flees.

Roxy takes the indicated stairs two at a time, not bothering with stealth. A goggle-eyed maidservant, coming out of a bedchamber, stands aside to let her past. The feather duster in her hand shivers with the wind of Roxy’s passing.

There are three doors, including the chamber from which the maidservant has emerged. Roxy ignores that one, as well as the one opposite it. The one at the far end of the hall is the one she wants – the one that Cronin had used as a records-room. The surgery itself is downstairs, but Cronin must be up here, managing her books. Roxy has been in that room before. She had been told to wait there, in the absence of a more usual parlor, until James had finished his business.

“Going to knock?” Tristan inquires.

“Not this time,” Roxy says savagely, and knocks the door open with a kick.

Cronin is in there, sitting, pen in hand, bent over an account-book. She scrambles to her feet. Her mouth opens, and sound comes out: some sort of words, Roxy thinks, something about _how dare they_ , and _the meaning of this_. They don’t quite process. Roxy simply doesn’t care.

She holds up her hand. For some reason, this makes Cronin fall silent, sputtering.

“Good day, Doctor,” Roxy says, because her parents had always stressed the importance of good manners. She takes an additional few steps into the small room, allowing Tristan, Bedivere, and Merlin the space to enter as well. “I have come to discuss your actions towards Miss Unwin. And also – ” a growl enters her voice. “ – my carrier.”

Cronin stiffens. She looks at Roxy. Then she looks past Roxy, at the three obvious warriors standing at her back.

She tries to bolt.

Tristan catches one of her arms, negligently, as if she’s a misbehaving child. Bedivere grabs the other. Roxy turns. They’ve got Cronin tightly held between them, though Cronin is struggling, staring wide-eyed at Roxy.

“Who _are_ you?” Cronin cries.

Roxy inclines her head. “I am Roxanne Morton,” she says. “My carrier was James Morton. Doubtless you recall him?”

“Oh, _him_ ,” Cronin says in disgust. “I was so sure I had it with him – got him to six months, and the cursed breeder goes and dies of grief – and then the cord – but that could have happened to any pregnancy; it didn’t have to be a side effect…”

“A side effect of what?” Roxy demands.

Cronin startles. She looks at Roxy, suddenly stony, and shakes her head.

“A side effect of _what_?” Roxy repeats, softer this time.

Bedivere tightens his grip. “And does it have anything to do with what you did to Miss Unwin?”

Cronin still doesn’t respond. Roxy raises her gaze, meeting Merlin’s eyes over Cronin’s shoulder. “Merlin?”

Behind Cronin, Merlin nods, and closes and locks the door.

* * *

The fire is in Roxy’s eyes.

Overhead, the stars glitter, but as foretold, there is no moon. Three days ago Roxy had stood in Harry Hart’s home and challenged him to a duel. Now she stands before an enormous bonfire, some unknown number of miles out of London. She wears the sturdy riding leathers in which she’d traveled to London, but she is bereft of even her belt-knife. The bonfire is enormous, illuminating the entirety of the clearing. Shadowed behind it are trees. Some kind of forest, though in what direction they’d ridden she could not say: she’d been blindfolded, her horse led by Tristan, while Bedivere rode at their rear. More than two hours from Mistress Jeanne’s lodgings. Less than three, she thinks. Most likely.

Roxy’s position before the fire is not an accident. There are figures before her, but they stand between she and the flames, whereby she cannot distinguish their faces. They can see hers. Are sizing her up, she doubts not. The figure in the center, shadowed though he is, can be none other than Marquess Cardoc. Or say, rather, Arthur.

_“When we gather on Kingsman business we use our knight-names only,” Bedivere had explained, as they rode out from London. Roxy, blindfolded, could do little but listen. “I am Bedivere, not Dunwell. She is Tristan, not Aberlundy. Harry – Cardoc – is addressed exclusively as Arthur. Do not forget.”_

Roxy, Bedivere, and Tristan had been the last to arrive. The blindfold had been removed, leaving Roxy blinking, the bonfire so bright it makes her eyes sting. It’s not quite bright enough to read by, but not significantly less dim than the average illumination of her bedroom in Morton Crescent, of an evening. And it naturally gives the advantage to those used to darkness. Such as the shadowy figures – Alphas all, Roxy’s nose assures her – who stand ranged before the bonfire. They study Roxy, or so Roxy guesses, and the silence stretches.

_“When we arrive, do not speak,” Tristan had counseled. “It is not specifically forbidden, but no one ever makes a fool of themselves by remaining silent.”_

Roxy stands in silence, and waits.

At last the central figure – Arthur – stirs. “Who is this that comes before the conclave?” he calls. In the darkness, under the stars and before the fire, there’s a wild quality to his voice. It has the same quality of wolves howling; Roxy, who has read her _Mythologie_ , hears the hunt in it.

Tristan, standing at Roxy’s right hand, makes answer. “Roxanne Morton, child of Percival, grandchild of Lancelot.”

“For what purpose does she come?”

“To discover her worth.”

“Against what measure?”

“The measure of a Kingsman.”

There is a pause. Roxy focuses on her breathing, keeping it slow. Steady. Even. The muscles in her shoulders want to twitch; she relaxes them with a conscious effort.

“Who brings this candidate before this conclave, and answers for her right to undertake the trials?” Arthur calls.

“I do,” Tristan answers.

“Who seconds her?”

“I do,” Bedivere answers.

There’s a shift in the focus of the group. Wherever the assembled knights had been looking at before, their gazes are all fixed now, intent, on Roxy and Roxy alone.

_“The only ones present will be full knights, and of course our King,” Bedivere had said. The first hour of their ride has passed, and the second is well underway. “A knight on assignment may be absent, or one recovering from injuries taken in the line of duty. No other reason for missing the conclave is acceptable. If you become a knight, you, too, may stand in conclave one day.”_

_“To admit new members?” Roxy had asked._

_“Or to dispense justice among one of our own.”_

“Does any other knight here present know of a reason why this candidate may not challenge for knighthood?” Arthur asks.

No one speaks.

“Then step forward, you who wish to be Lancelot,” Arthur says. “The moment you do, the trials will begin. Have you been prepared?”

_“The rules of the trials are simple,” Tristan had said. “You are given instructions. You obey. You are given orders. You obey. Questions in the service of greater clarity are permitted, though they may not be answered. Questions in the form of hesitation are not. You may succeed or you may fail; in either case, the trials continue. If you hesitate, if you falter, if you refuse – the trials will end.”_

“I have,” Roxy answers.

Arthur says nothing in reply. Nor does anyone else speak. The pressure of their gazes remains on Roxy, heightened by the leaping flames behind them. Roxy understands that they are waiting for her.

She steps forward.

Instantly the tableau changes. Tristan and Bedivere turn aside, five long strides each taking them to the edges of the clearing. From the watching knights, one figure detaches itself, coming forward. Not Arthur. This figure had stood third from the left, a head taller than Roxy, and somewhat broader of shoulder. Now, as they approach, Roxy sees that they hold two swords.

“Take this,” the figure says, offering one to Roxy.

Roxy obeys, accepting the sword. She hefts it experimentally. It’s a standard rapier; if it’s unlike the ones Roxy had been trained on as a cub, she cannot detect the difference.

The figure raises their own sword. “Score a touch upon me. Begin when I move. End if you accomplish this, or if I say ‘halt’.”

Roxy inclines her head. She assumes the position, and waits.

The match begins almost at once. Roxy attempts a feint, which gains her only the need to rapidly sidestep her opponent’s blade. She grits her teeth. All right, she hadn’t expected this to be easy, but –

A step forward. A step back, and the wild hope that that doesn’t qualify as _retreat_. The match continues, so she assumes not. But it’s not really a match, Roxy sees. The Alpha fighting her is drawing her out, watching Roxy go through her forms as dispassionately as her fencing-master ever had at Morton Crescent. When Roxy begins to repeat herself, no closer to scoring a touch on her last thrust than on her first, the Alpha steps back out of range and says, “Halt.”

Roxy returns to the guard position at once, then offers a salute.

The Alpha turns and bows to Arthur. “Adequate,” she says.

Arthur inclines his head in return. “Thank you, Kay,” he says. “Bors?”

Bors’ weapons are knives. He gives Roxy two, and produces only one for himself. Despite this, the match goes ill; when Bors calls a halt, he only shakes his head to Arthur. Next Gareth presents Roxy with a pistol, whereupon she acquits herself better.

“Water,” Arthur calls next, rather than the name of another knight. Tristan approaches Roxy and hands her a skin.

“Is this it, then?” Roxy pants, drinking deeply. “I simply fight all the knights in turn?”

Tristan doesn’t answer. She takes the skin when Roxy is done, and retreats, keeping her face in shadow.

Three more trials follow – with crossbow, with wrestling, and with rifle. Roxy’s breath begins to come hard, her eyes to sting. Fatigue and weariness cloud her vision. She tries to remember how many knights there had been at the beginning of the conclave. Six? Seven? Counting Arthur, or not? She thinks to count the shadowy figures, but they’re getting harder to distinguish as the bonfire burns lower. Are Tristan and Bedivere among them? Will she have to fight them, too? Or as her proposers, are they exempt? She doesn’t know.

“Galahad,” Arthur calls.

Another figure approaches. Roxy blinks. One figure? Or had it been two? No, it is only one. And it is handing Roxy a knife.

A knife? Again?

“Choose,” the figure instructs.

Roxy looks down. She knows this knife. It’s the knife Merlin had handed her, of which he had said –

_“Ye may find poetic justice in using this. It’s one of a set. Harry gave me this one, and I gave it to Eggsy, who used it to threaten Harry.”_

Roxy had given this knife back to Merlin, after –

 _“I was so sure I had it with him – got him to six months, and the cursed breeder goes and dies of grief –_ ”

Merlin and Bedivere had stayed behind to deal with the body. Tristan had taken Roxy in charge, getting her back to Mistress Jeanne’s, ordering her a bath – to get the blood out –

“After all,” the voice – Doctor Cronin’s voice – says softly, “what good are Omegas, really, except as breeders? And those who can’t even do that – they may as well help advance the cause of science…”

Roxy looks up, and into the face of a nightmare.

“You’re dead,” she says.

The Doctor grins at her. “I was going to be rich,” she says. “I cared more about that than anything else.”

The hilt of the knife is slick in her grip. “You’re dead,” she repeats. “I killed you.”

“And you enjoyed it!”

“That’s a lie!”

The Doctor is armed – she hadn’t been armed the first time, but she is now, and the knife she carries is a twin to Roxy’s. She lunges forward, and her skill is far beyond that of an academic. Roxy leaps to the side, disoriented and confused.

“You wanted to enjoy it,” Cronin taunts. “You thought it would be like the stories, the brave Alpha defending her family’s honor. Oh, what’s wrong, little cub? Did the stories not mention the blood? The screaming?”

“Life isn’t a story.” That much Roxy knows. That much Roxy has known ever since –

“Little cub?”

She turns. The knife nearly slips from her fingers, before she tightens her grip.

“Little cub,” Percival repeats, smiling. He comes from the shadows and holds out his hands to her.

“Father?” Roxy swallows.

“Not so little any more,” James says. He, too, smiles fondly; Percival puts his arm around his mate. “Look how she’s grown.”

A stinging cut across her chest makes Roxy gasp. “Pay attention to me,” Cronin hisses. The knife in her hands is wet. Roxy falls back, her free hand coming to feel the wound – not serious, barely a scratch. Cronin making a point.

“But you’re dead!” Roxy cries. “You’re all dead.”

Percival’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “So are you!”

“What?”

James shakes his head at Percival. “Be gentle,” he admonishes. To Roxy: “You must have suspected. A missing Omega? A gambling hell, with an Alpha who matches your every fantasy? A secret military intelligence gathering society? An evil doctor whose death avenges my honor?” Unlike Percival, James doesn’t laugh. He just goes on smiling at Roxy, that kind, fond, indulgent smile that Roxy remembers far too well. It makes Roxy feel eight years old again. Eight, and foolish, because she’d stayed up too late reading novels and had a too-vivid dream and come bursting in to James’ room babbling about pirates invading the grounds of Morton Crescent…

“It’s all right,” James soothes. “It’s perfectly normal. For me it was Alastair being born. I thought I lived through it all – the last three months of my pregnancy, the birth – you loved him, you know. Little Alastair. Then Percival came home from the war, and that’s when I realized.”

“Realized – ”

“That I was dead.” James’ smile doesn’t waver. “It takes longer for some than others. That’s all right.”

“But – but why now?” Roxy looks around wildly.

Percival shrugs. “I suppose this is where your invention gave out.”

“Or maybe you’re just trying to forget me,” Cronin taunts. Roxy’s attention veers back to the doctor, who is grinning madly. There’s blood dripping down Cronin’s face now, from where one of her ears is missing. Roxy remembers doing that. She remembers _planning_ to do that. Taking the knife from Merlin, and saying, _“Eggsy might appreciate something in its place. An ear, do you think?”_

“You killed my carrier,” Roxy says to Cronin, grasping at what she knows to be true – what she believes to be true –

“No, little cub,” Percival says kindly. “James died in premature childbirth.”

James sighs. “And because, I’m sorry, part of me didn’t want to go on living.”

“No, it was I!” Cronin declares. “I was going to be rich – rich, just as soon as I figured out the right combination of drugs!”

“To stop miscarriage,” Roxy says, repeating what Cronin had told her two days ago, when Roxy had pressed the knife into Cronin’s flesh and smelled the blood and viscera and urine as Cronin’s bladder had let go. “You were going to find a miracle drug to prevent miscarriage, and it was going to make you rich.”

“Every noble in the _ton_ would be lining up to pay for it.” In the waning firelight, Cronin’s eyes and teeth glitter madly. So does the blade of her knife as she raises it.

“But you tested it on living Omegas!”

“The only point of an Omega is to breed! If they can’t do it, they’re useless! But _I_ made them useful again! As test subjects for my work, they had value.”

“And the ones who died?” Roxy blinks, and suddenly she’s back in Cronin’s accounting-room. Tristan and Bedivere are the ones standing and watching, not Percival and James. Only Cronin is the same – Cronin, and the knife Roxy is holding.

Cronin laughs. “You don’t weep over the chicken who dies to make your supper,” she taunts. “Who _cares_?”

Roxy lunges – just as she had that day – lunges forward, knife at the ready, and it goes into Cronin’s belly, deep, deep, and she drags it in a circle like she’s carving a roast, and Cronin screams, and screams, and something slippery and awful spills out of her and Roxy’s boots slip in it and –

Cronin dances back, in the firelight, out of Roxy’s reach. Untouched. Still laughing, holding her own knife, the only one wet with blood.

“Roxy,” Percival calls. “Roxy, it isn’t real. None of it is real.”

“Time to let it go,” James says. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

The stars glitter. There is still no moon. Roxy is in the clearing in the forest outside London, and her parents are there, and Cronin is there, and nothing makes sense anymore.

“I tried to do the right thing,” she cries to her parents. “I tried to manage the estate, I tried to protect Eggsy – I tried to avenge you – did none of hit happen? Did none of it _matter_? What did I try so hard for, if none of it ever _mattered_?”

“It’s all right,” James says. He holds out his arms. “You don’t have to try anymore.”

Roxy looks at his arms. The world blurs; something hot drips onto her arm when she reaches up to scrub at her eyes, and she realizes she’s crying. She wants, more than she’s wanted anything for a long time, to run into her carrier’s arms. To feel James’ warmth again. To feel Percival wrap them both up, and carry them both home. To whatever’s next. Is little Alistair there, too? Does Roxy have a sibling? To raise, to be a role model for? She could take little Alistair riding, as she had used to take Daisy. Read books to her. She had read to Daisy so many evenings. Read stories like this, in fact. Stories of King Arthur himself, and the Round Table, and Camelot, and knights who always knew what was right and never, ever gave up…

Cronin laughs at Roxy. “You made me the villain,” she taunts. “Because you couldn’t stand to realize how helpless you really were in the face of your parents’ death and your own estates. You invented all of this just to escape your own responsibility!”

“No,” Roxy whispers.

“Don’t listen to her,” Percival says. “She’s just a figment of your imagination.”

“Maybe she is,” Roxy says. She looks down at the knife in her hands. She’s thinking clearly for the first time since this fight has begun. “If she is – if you’re right – then this doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right,” James says encouragingly. “This fight doesn’t matter. Come with us.”

“And retreat?” Roxy looks at her parents. “I miss you every day,” she tells them, in case they’re really there. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t have done more for you. I’m so sorry I never lived up to who you wanted me to be. And I’m sorry I can’t come with you now.”

“Roxy?” James’ arms fall to his side. “What are you saying?”

“I can’t stop trying,” Roxy says simply.

“Always the hero!” Cronin crows.

 _Choose_ , Galahad had said.

_“What happens if I fail?” Roxy had asked, as the second hour of their ride had drawn to a close._

_“If you fail? Nothing.” Tristan’s voice had been calm._

_“Nothing?” Roxy had heard her own surprise. “No punishments? No, no threats?”_

_“If you fail you will wake up tomorrow, in your own bed, and your life will continue. All of this will simply be a bad dream from which you have awoken.”_

_Roxy had been silent a long moment. “And if I succeed?”_

 “If I thought you were really here I’d stab you again,” Roxy tells Cronin – or whoever she really is. “But there’s only one thing I can be sure I can control.”

“What’s that, little cub?” Percival asks softly.

“Myself.” Roxy reverses the knife. She knows where her own heart is – that’s where she rests its tip.

“What are you doing?” James sounds suddenly frightened.

“If I’m really dead this won’t matter at all.” Roxy nods slowly. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Roxy!”

She drives it in.

* * *

“Of all the damn fool stunts to pull – ”

“You have to admit her solution was effective.”

“I nearly had a heart attack. _This_ is why we shouldn’t – ”

“Didn’t the French drug _you_ in aught-eight?”

“And I killed _them_ instead of trying to kill _myself_ – ”

“She’s coming around.”

Roxy blinks. The fire is in her eyes. Above her, the stars glitter.

“Drink,” a voice instructs. It’s Tristan’s. She holds a skin to Roxy’s lips.

Roxy considers this for all of a second. “No,” she decides.

There’s a chuckle, quickly muffled, that has to be Bedivere. “It’s just water this time,” he says, sounding amused. “On our honor.”

Roxy wants to ask, _what honor_. When she blinks, her eyelids feel weighted down, and she can feel tears roll down the sides of her head to dampen the hair at her temples.

“What was it before?” is what she asks.

Bedivere smiles. His eyes, too, crinkle at the sides. “Opium.”

“You were Percival.”

“I was whoever you needed me to be.”

“How did you know what to say?”

“We take our cues from you.” Bedivere’s smile is kind, too, but it’s nothing like Percival’s. “In your case, we could pretty well guess in advance what – who – you would see.”

“Drink,” Tristan says again. “It’s over.”

 _It will never be over,_ Roxy thinks. But she drinks, this time.

“The wound’s not bad,” a third voice announces. Roxy tries to focus on the speaker: she thinks it might be Kay, who had fought her with rapiers. “You did well to catch her hand when you did, Arthur. A few days’ rest, and barring infection, she’ll be fine.”

Roxy looks up, past Kay. Hart – Arthur – is standing there. He holds both knives – the knife Roxy had been given, and its twin. He had played Cronin. He had stopped Roxy’s self-inflicted stab from causing too much damage.

“I didn’t retreat,” she tells him defiantly. “And I didn’t hesitate, either.”

“Indeed you did not,” he agrees. “Kneel.”

Roxy twitches. “A moment, Arthur,” Kay says, long-suffering. She produces a roll of bandage and winds it around Roxy’s ribs. “Did you have to cut her into the bargain?”

“Others have been hurt worse,” Tristan says. “She did well.”

“Done.” Kay ties off the bandage. “Now she may kneel.”

Roxy’s limbs don’t quite want to work, she discovers. “That’s the opium,” Bedivere says knowledgeably. He takes her arm and assists her into position. Roxy contemplates the grass beneath her knees and wonders if she might take a nap on it. The adrenaline is wearing off, and the opium-lassitude is setting in. She wonders if she’ll dream. She wonders _what_ she’ll dream. She wonders if she _is_ dreaming.

The fire is down to embers; Roxy can no longer distinguish any figures farther than three or four paces away. Arthur is before her, Tristan and Bedivere at her side. Kay hovers – in case, Roxy thinks, she faints dead away. Then, out of the shadows, a new figure emerges. From the way the firelight glints on their scalp, Roxy identifies Merlin even before he draws close enough to be recognized. He’s holding a sword. Roxy tenses, thinking there’s more to the trials, but Merlin shakes his head at her.

“What would an Arthur be without an Excalibur?” he asks rhetorically, offering the sword to Harry.

“Or a Merlin?” Arthur answers. He buckles the sword around his waist. Merlin winks at Roxy, coming to stand near her.

“He’ll do most of the talking,” he murmurs. “Your line is ‘I so swear’. Understand?”

Roxy nods.

Arthur speaks in a sonorous voice. He asks Roxy if she will uphold the laws of chivalry; if she will always stand by the other Kingsman knights; if she will protect the innocent before herself. Between each question he pauses. She doesn’t need Merlin’s nudge to repeat: “I so swear.”

Arthur draws his sword. It’s an old blade, two-handed and broad, not anything a modern gentleman would train with or wear. He handles it easily enough, however.

“And will you swear follow me into battle, taking my orders wherever they lead you, and laying down your life, if necessary, at my word?”

Ah. Yes. Roxy had expected something like this. She’s been thinking about it on and off since Cronin had died. Thinking about Eggsy, and courtships, and trust.

If Harry kills her on the dueling grounds, then it won’t matter what she swears. Nor will it matter if _she_ kills _Harry_. But barring those extreme outcomes – and Roxy knows most such meetings, even those between soldiers, do not end in a fatality – Roxy and Harry will have to live with this oath. Potentially for a very long time.

Eggsy has accepted a courting bracelet from this Alpha. If honor is satisfied on the dueling-grounds, what further right will Roxy have to bar the match? She can make certain that Eggsy knows he is always welcome at Morton Crescent – that, if Eggsy discovers he’s made a mistake, she will help him obtain an annulment – that she will always be a sympathetic ear for discussion of any kind – but beyond that…

And, thinking again of the many stories Tristan and Bedivere and even Merlin have told her over the last few days – supposing Roxy is the one who’s made a mistake?

“Until the day I see Eggsy cry because of you,” Roxy says, “I so swear.”

Merlin makes a choking sound. Roxy looks at him out of the corner of her eye. She suspects him of laughing, but in the dim ember-glow something wet glitters on his cheek.

Beyond Merlin, there’s a stir and a rustle that Roxy might think were leaves turning in the wind, if she didn’t know that the rest of her soon-to-be-fellow-knights were watching from outside the dying glow of the bonfire. Roxy raises her chin. Let them disapprove. She won’t ever stop trying.

Arthur raises his voice so it can be heard. “A worthy oath,” he says. “I accept it with pride.”

Then comes the part that’s familiar from history-books and novels alike: a gentle tap, first on the right shoulder and then on the left. Arthur re-sheathes his sword and draws her to her feet.

“You’ll have to work on your knife-fighting,” Arthur says conversationally. “Bors will help you with that.”

“Lucky for me you didn’t choose knives for our duel,” Roxy says, light-headed.

Arthur might smile. “Lucky for you,” he agrees. He turns slightly, taking in the remainder of the assembled company. “Behold Lancelot,” he announces. “She is welcome among us.”

A cheer is raised. Bedivere and Tristan clap Roxy on the back. Then, one by one into the dying light, the other knights come forward to offer their congratulations.


	13. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the moment, life goes on for Lord Harry Hart. He can't see his Omega, he can't wring Roxanne Morton's neck, so he deals with business at The Black Hart, and in the process, discovers some uncomfortable truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Non-Spoilery Warning:** Brief suicidal ideation.

**Two Days Before the Lancelot Trials**

Harry needs a distraction, something to keep him from breaking his promise and sullying his honor by going out to the house in Richmond to see Eggsy. He doesn't think that he would have had this problem has Roxanne Morton not burst into his home like a Fury bent of vengeance. He would have been able to bid goodbye to Eggsy without the taste of his Omega on his lips. They would have parted with promises and hopes for a future together, and Harry would have happily spent the intervening days planning Eggsy's introduction into Polite Society. 

Now, all Harry can think about is the beautiful scent of Eggsy's rising heat, the loveliness of his lips, the bold strength of his arms, Eggsy shy approval of everything that Harry wants to give to him. 

And when Harry is not thinking about Eggsy, he's thinking about the impending duel with the soon-to-be Lancelot. This is a situation for which he has no frame of reference – a Kingsman knight challenging Arthur to a duel. This certainly never happened to his grandsire, although Harry suspects that the old rogue had been challenged to a fair share of affairs of honor in the years before he took his mate.

Harry, however, has not. He's certainly killed people in battle, on reconnaissance missions, to enforce rough justice when the circumstance required, but in all his years, he's never faced an armed opponent at dawn to settle a private grievance. 

There is a part of him sincerely believes that he'll be able to convince the Morton cub that his intentions are as pure as the driven snow, and that the duel will not take place. But Harry is a realist and his face still stings with the memory of Morton's slap. And his own attitude when she'd confronted him in the library certainly wouldn't endear him to her. What had he said, "You'll be lucky if Eggsy remembers your name…"

That had certainly been a piece of rank foolishness. When had he grown so cruel?

So, it looks to be pistols at dawn, five days hence. And Harry Hart, last of his line, might very well die at Morton's hands. Not that he thinks that Morton is a crack shot – and she might be – but Harry's not sure that he'll be able to pull the trigger; he finds idea of killing Percival's child untenable, no matter how badly she's provoked him. 

Which means that he could be giving Morton a clear shot at him, and given her willful arrogance and her play at lord of the manor and guardian of Eggsy Unwin's honor, Harry's fairly certain that she will shoot to kill.

Ever the dutiful Alpha, Harry makes a mental note to contact Gideon about updating his last will and testament - just in case things go badly. There is an elderly Alpha cousin – a child of one of Perran's cousins – who will inherit the Marquessate and some nominal property in Surrey. Everything else is unentailed and unencumbered; the estate at Tintagel, the land, the mines, all of Harry's business ventures, plus the value of his Kingsman shares, will to go to Eggsy. He probably should also increase the bequests to his loyal staff, maybe making it contingent on their continued service. 

He might have stewed all day over his thwarted romance and the possibility of his impending mortality, but Harry has to be at The Black Hart this afternoon. It's the end of the month and he'll need to go over the books with Cimber, the club's senior accountant. Nothing stands in the way of Cimber and his numbers.

An hour later, Harry is settled in at his office, a pot of strong coffee nearby and a bottle of scotch whiskey within reach. Of all the tasks of running the venture, this is the part he dislikes the most. Cimber is a meticulous fellow, he loves numbers the way that glutton loves food. Or perhaps that is not the correct analogy; he loves to talk about numbers the way a gourmand loves to talk about food.

There's a knock on the door and Harry gets up to answer it - he'd locked the door when he came in. As expected, Cassius has brought Cimber up, which is the usual procedure. Technically, no one except Harry, Cassius, who is the senior floor manager, and the Kingsman knights, are permitted on this level unaccompanied. While Harry trusts Cimber, it's still best to observe the formalities – after all, Caesar had trusted Brutus until he'd been stabbed in the back. 

Before Harry starts work with Cimber, Cassius brings a problem, albeit a minor one, to his attention. "It seems that Lord Grassley has been spreading slanders about the club." Cassius doesn't sound upset, which tells Harry that he's already handled the problem. "She's been complaining about the quality of the food and drink, that we are watering down the whiskey, that our brandy is little more than soured cider, and the food we serve isn't fit for a rabid dog."

That takes Harry aback; Grassley has been a member of The Black Hart since the doors opened. "What's the problem, then?"

"I've checked the books. Lord Grassley membership dues are past due, and she has twin Omegas coming out this season. Presentation at court, two separate balls so neither will feel slighted. Lord Grassley's likely hoping for a good match to reline her pockets, which are a bit to let at the moment." Cassius supplies the reasoning with a smug smile.

"And she is hoping we'll waive the dues if she stops slandering the club?" Constance Grassley has never been the sharpest knife in the box, and it doesn't shock Harry to think that she would attempt such clumsy blackmail.

Cassius nods.

"How did you handle it?"

"I reminded Lord Grassley that her contract with the club does contain an out clause; she can always elect not to renew her membership, but then we would need to immediately call her markers. She currently owes - " Cassius turns to Cimber, who supplies the tally.

"Fifteen hundred pounds. She's been playing rather deep the last few weeks and has reached the limits of her line of credit."

"And of course, Grassley can't pay the marker - not if she doesn't even have funds to pay the membership fee." Harry sums up. "So, what did you propose to her?"

"I advised her lordship that her contract prohibits slander against the club, its members and its managers, and that we may elect to cancel her membership immediately, which would required the placement of a public notice in all of the rags for a minimum of two weeks. And naturally, we would call in her markers in such event. Upon consideration of all the facts, Lord Grassley has promised payment of her membership dues within the week, and will cease relaying her opinions of The Black Hart's amenities."

Harry laughs. He'd forgotten about those terms and gives mental kudos to Gideon for her drafting skills. "Good work, Cassius."

The manager departs, leaving Harry with Cimber and the dreaded accounting books.

Truthfully, it really isn't that bad. Cimber is efficient and understands that Harry doesn't want to hear the minutiae, so he keeps the details to a minimum. But even that minimum is too much for Harry. "In a nutshell, please." 

"The income this week is a touch more than fourteen thousand pounds, of which two-thirds comes from the club's share of the table games. The remainder is a combination of the interest payments on the member's lines of credit and the fees from Master Tilde's operations." Cimber gives Harry a summary of the accounting, which Harry scans. Fourteen thousand pounds is a veritable fortune, although a quarter of that will be needed for the club's weekly operating expenses. The balance will be paid out to the living members of the Company of Kingsman and the decedents' accounts - including the Unwin Allotment and the Morton account. 

"Anything else of note?"

Cimber nods and Harry sighs. Of course there is.

"Lord Faris had wanted to pledge his family home for an increased line of credit. He'd even brought the deeds with him last night. Per the club's policy, I denied the request."

"Good." Harry doesn't think of The Black Hart as a particularly safe place - it is a gaming hell, after all. But there are lines he won't cross. Credit is extended based on a member's financial standing and is limited for a reason. Members are, naturally, free to seek financing elsewhere - cent-percenters are always willing to lend at usurious rates. Harry is well aware that he's a hypocrite in certain respects. After all, he had lured Charlie King to The Black Hart and encouraged him to play deep enough to ruin his family.

But that had been for the greater good, after all.

"Is that all?" Harry is weary from lack of sleep.

"Actually, there's one more item you should be made aware of. Lord Morton - the new one - made an appearance the other night."

"Oh?" Harry's blood turns cold. "What night?"

"The night with the unpleasantness with the dealer."

_The night that Eggsy had been delivered to the house in Richmond._

Cimber, unaware of Harry's turmoil continues. "She didn't really seem to know anything about the club or her sire's membership - _her_ membership now. Master Tilde had to explain things."

"Tilde?" 

"Yes, she seemed to have attached herself to the young lord. When I went to true up the accounts at the table games yesterday, one of the dealers mentioned that young Morton had done quite well for herself. And had shown surprising fortitude for a beginner, leaving the tables with her winnings, rather than playing until she lost everything."

Somehow, that doesn't surprise Harry in the least. "And did Master Tilde remain with Lord Morton through the evening?"

"That, sir, I cannot say." Cimber stands and gives Harry a slight bow. "Thank you for your time, sir. I know that this is not your favorite responsibility."

"No, but it is essential." Especially now, when he might not be here next week. It's best to leave everything in proper order.

"Shall I send Master Tilde to you now?"

Harry blinks, has Cimber become a mind-reader?

Something must show on his face and Cimber reminds him, "It is the last Friday of the month." 

"Ah, yes. I seem to have lost track of the calendar. Please have Cassius escort Master Tilde up; we do have the usual items to review." And perhaps several that are off the agenda.

Cimber takes his leave, the door closing quietly behind him. But Harry doesn't hear anything, his mind is whirling with questions. Obvious questions that he should have thought to ask the Morton cub yesterday when she'd gotten done pestering him about her sire's will.

Just how did Roxanne Morton find out about Kingsman? It had been clear from their conversation that neither Percival nor James had told her about the organization. Could Dagonet have told her? 

No, Dagonet might have been perfectly loyal to Percival and the Morton family, but he had also been part of the Company and would never presume to tell anyone – especially a minor – the truth about her father's legacy. And even if Dagonet had thought the cub ready to know, he wouldn't have directed Morton to Harry's doorstep.

Somehow, Morton found out about Charlie King's debt to The Black Hart – she probably went digging through Chester's papers for something and found a copy of the demand for payment. Thinking about it, Harry is not at all surprised that Morton had been able to connect the debt to Eggsy's sudden trip to London. The cub is sharp, if a bit misdirected.

The big question is, how did Morton find her way from The Black Hart to his doorstep? It's far from common knowledge that Harry Hart, the Marquess Cardoc, runs The Black Hart. He has never appeared on the public floors without a mask, and while the staff might see his face, they would have no reason to know that he's a titled nobleman, especially since the Marquess keeps a deliberately low social profile.

So, who would have pointed Morton in his direction? Who _could_ have? Only a very few highly trusted employees are aware of his identity; Cimber doesn't, but Cassius knows. 

And so does Tilde.

A dozen years ago, during a brief period when he'd been called back to London, Harry had assisted a young prostitute who had been trying to free herself from her procurer, a vicious Alpha who had control over much of the street-level prostitution in the Piccadilly neighborhood. 

He'd been a noble idiot and a chivalrous fool – actually, that's exactly what Tilde had called him – after Harry had sliced the bastard to ribbons, introduced himself by name and title, and then told Tilde she didn't have to be a whore. She'd laughed in his face and told him she liked what she did and she was good at it, she just didn't like giving over ninety percent of what she made to the turd of an Alpha that Harry'd just killed. 

A few years later, when peacetime turns Kingsman into a private business venture and The Black Hart opens its doors, Harry discovers that Tilde has started her own business venture. Harry offers her the pleasure concession for the club and he's never had cause to regret that decision. At least until now.

Cassius knocks on the door and Harry tells him to come in - he hadn't reengaged the lock after Cimber departed.

"Master Tilde, sir."

"Thank you, that's all for now." Harry dismisses the manager and turns to Tilde. "I'm afraid the coffee's gone cold, but it is after noon, so perhaps a drink?" Harry plans to keep this conversation civilized.

Tilde smiles and Harry realizes, perhaps for the first time, just how much she resembles the cats that roam the basement, keeping the rat population under control. Or perhaps he's being too fanciful. 

"A dram of whiskey wouldn't go amiss."

Harry pours her the measure but takes none for himself. The cold coffee seems to fit his mood better. He gets right down to business. "Cimber's just run the numbers. You've done well this month." Harry scratches out the number that the accountant had provided to him and hands the paper to Tilde.

She nods. "As always, our numbers tally. Cimber is a treasure."

"And if Cimber's numbers are lower than yours, you're not going to complain, of course."

"You think I'd cheat you, Lord Hart?" Tilde raises one elegantly sculptured eyebrow.

Harry bristles as her use of his title, it feels as if she's rubbing his face in what she's done. "I think you do what is best for you, whether it's right or wrong." There's an edge to his tone, which Tilde picks up on.

"I'm not certain I understand your hostility. Have I ever given you a reason to doubt my integrity? Or do you think that because I'm a whore, I have no - "

Harry cuts her off. "Oh, please, Tilde. If I thought that, you wouldn't be sitting here."

"Then what's the problem?"

Harry sees no need to string this out. "Lord Roxanne Morton."

Tilde continues to smile, a picture of feminine Alpha poise. "What about Lord Morton?"

"Thank you for not denying your acquaintance."

"You wouldn't be asking me about Lord Morton if you weren't already aware that I know her. What do you want to know?"

Harry scrubs at his face, and in the process, pulls off his eyepatch. He's long since reconciled to the lost eye and the scarring, but it is a disturbing sight. Tilde, despite her trade and experience, can't hide her revulsion.

He keeps his remaining eye on her and asks, "Tell me how you know Lord Morton."

"I don't, not really. I noticed her when she came into the club the other night. She looked a little overwhelmed and I'd thought I'd offer some guidance."

"Do you know how she made it past Casca?" By rights, Lord Morton shouldn't have made it in the door without giving her name, and Casca would have told Cassius, who would have informed Harry that the new Lord Morton is seeking entry into the club. The Black Hart is, after all, members and guest of members only. It's not a common hell where anyone could walk in off the street.

"I presume she gave him her name." 

Harry hasn't had the time to question the butler, but there's no reason for Tilde to know that, so he tells a small lie. "Casca says he has no recollection of admitting Lord Morton. And in fact, Cimber tells me that Lord Morton had seemed completely unaware of how to proceed with obtaining credit for her run at the tables. That you'd helped smooth the way."

Tilde remains cool. "Is that a problem, Lord Hart?"

"In and of itself, no. But it raises a number of questions." Harry leans forward.

"Oh?" Tilde shifts in her seat, finally displaying a bit of nerves.

"Cimber also had told me that Lord Morton had known nothing about her sire's membership here. And yet, yesterday afternoon, she burst into my home – my private dwelling – and made any number of vile accusations against me, against The Black Hart, and against Kingsman. I have to wonder, how an ignorant country lordling could learn, in the space of an evening, enough about The Black Hart to connect it to a private business partnership and then to me?"

Harry leans back in his chair and stares at Tilde. She stares back and the silence stretches thin. Harry can wait all day if he has to. He's broken harder people than this.

And Tilde does break. "I – ah – may have mentioned Kingsman to Lord Morton." She gives him a defiant look and adds, "Yours, as well." 

Harry doesn't let his anger get the best of him. He asks with quiet intent, "How do you know about Kingsman?"

Tilde shrugs. "I've learned that it's best to know who I'm in business with. Before I signed my contract with you, I had my solicitor look into The Black Hart. She found the corporation papers, which pointed back to the Kingsman company, of which you are listed as the majority shareholder. And there are seven other shareholders. It's all in the public record, if you have the patience to look."

Harry's honestly impressed by Tilde's diligence. "Fair point. And I suppose it would have been too much to simply tell Lord Morton to go to Corporation House to do her own research?"

"Why should I?" Tilde's defiant. "Her sire had been listed as a shareholder, and I had been honestly surprised by her ignorance. Speaking as someone who'd once paid a steep price for her own lack of knowledge, I didn't think it would be right to consign Lord Morton to a similar fate."

"Perhaps." Harry's unwilling to concede to Tilde's argument, even though he hadn't agreed with Percival's decision to keep his cub in the dark about Kingsman and her legacy. 

"You are angry, Lord Hart. Angry that a mere whore could bring down your precious company."

"You, my dear Master Tilde, are no mere anything. You are an Alpha of intelligence and drive, and you have always had my respect - one business owner to another. And until this moment, I hadn't been aware that you bore me any animosity."

"I don't, not really." Tilde shrugs. "Your arrogance is both amusing and annoying." 

"And that is your reason for betraying my confidence?" 

Tilde seems confused. "What betrayal. The information about Kingsman is a matter of public record."

"That may be, but I have taken great pains to keep my association with the club out of the public eye. Few employees know my full name, fewer still know my title. I never appear on the public floors without a mask. You know how much I value my privacy, and yet on the barest association, you give my name and title to Lord Morton. Why?"

Tilde fiddles with her skirt, her thumb running down a seam. She is finally betraying her nerves. "Lord Morton had mentioned that a member of her household had gone missing - a young Omega. She'd intimated that The Black Hart might have something to do with his disappearance. Or perhaps that someone at the club could help her find the missing pup."

"And so, willy-nilly, you gave Morton my name?"

"Yes. I found her reasons compelling."

Harry strives to keep his temper. "Did you consider, perhaps, that you might reach out to me directly, to tell me that someone is looking for me, looking for a lost dependent?"

Tilde sniffs. "Frankly, no."

"Why not?" Harry can't understand Tilde's attitude.

"How could I know that you'd treat the matter seriously?"

"How? How could you not? Of everything that you have observed over the dozen years you've know me, have you ever seen me harm an innocent? Ignore someone in need? Didn't you call me a noble fool and a chivalrous idiot when I came to your rescue? Six months ago, when one of your Omegas was having trouble with a customer, you didn't seem to have any trouble asking for my help. I personally tossed the son of a bitch out on his ass and barred him from the club."

"You've also cut off the hands of dealers who've cheated you, you've bankrupted ignorant fools - "

Harry shakes his head, not accepting her counterargument. "I'll ask you again, Master Tilde, have you ever known me to harm an innocent? Or to stand by and watch someone walk blindly into danger?"

Tilde frowns, her lips thinning in displeasure, but she finally admits, "No."

A small victory, perhaps, and it leaves Harry feeling diminished. He hates being a bully. "I can accept that you felt it appropriate to give Morton my name, but why would you share my address? That is not a matter of public record."

The frown goes sour. "I didn't tell her were you live. I don't know where you live. I simply suggested that Lord Morton talk with the solicitor who registered the papers, Sarah Gideon."

That name is like a slap in the face. "Ah, well - then my apologies for the unwarranted accusation. Lord Morton must have gotten my address from Counsellor Gideon."

"That seems likely." Tilde stands and smooths down her attire. "I think, Lord Hart, that it would be beneficial for both of us if we terminated our association. I find I dislike being bullied and I doubt you'll be able to trust me after these events."

Harry masks his hurt with laughter at her attempt at a dramatic exit. He doesn't consider Tilde's a friend, but they've been associates for a long time. "I wouldn't worry about that. I won't have much chance to bully you in the future. Or mistrust you, either."

Tilde is startled. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, I failed to mention. Lord Morton forced her way into my home yesterday and challenged me to a duel over her missing Omega. It will be pistols at dawn five days hence. There will likely be a new manager of the club by evening." At this moment, Harry finds that he's far less blasé about the duel than he'd been just a few hours ago.

"What?" Tilde finally looks shocked.

Harry clarifies, "I suspect that I will not survive the encounter."

Tilde looks at him like he's gone insane. "That is something I highly doubt - you have a most definite advantage over Lord Morton."

"You are referring to my age and experience, most certainly."

Tilde nods, "Most certainly. A seasoned veteran against a young lordling fresh from the country? You could wing Morton without much effort."

Harry is relieved that Tilde doesn't suggest he kill his opponent. "Ah, but Morton has two good eyes." Harry finds the eyepatch and replaces it, and then remembers his manners and stands. "I have no idea who will be elected as my successor, but despite what you think of me, all the members of Kingsman are honorable and trustworthy. I suggest that you give the new manager a try before breaking your contract. Hell, you might even negotiate a better deal." He leads Tilde to the door. "And if you will excuse me, I need to start putting my affairs in order."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry doesn't summon Gideon to the Mayfair house. At this moment, he doesn't trust his temper and he may say things to her that he might later regret - if he lives long enough to become regretful. He is deeply disappointed by her breach of ethics; unlike Tilde's rationale about Kingsman being a matter of public record, Gideon cannot excuse giving out a private address of a private client - and Henry Ruan Hart, Marquess Cardoc is a client of the firm, even if the Morton cub had just wanted information about Kingsman.

Instead, he sends a messenger requesting the presence of Kenilworth the Younger, noting that he needs to make some modifications to his will, and Kenilworth should bring the appropriate staff to witness the changes. The counsellor arrives, with two fresh-faced clerks. Kenilworth the Younger is a cheery fellow, about Harry's age. His grandfather had been the founding Kenilworth, and if rumor is true, had sailed with Perran Hart and did much of the accounting of the prizes then-Captain Hart had collected. 

The solicitor comes into Harry's library full of energy and smiles, and Harry manages to don one in return. Lucius has a tea tray set up and before they settle to business, everyone is given a chance to sample the refreshments and Kenilworth makes small talk about the doings of various members of society. Harry pretends interest in the gossip, but is relieved when Kenilworth finally does turn to the reason he'd been summoned.

"You wish to make some modifications to your will, my lord?" Kenilworth nods at one of the clerks, who passes over a leather folio.

"I do."

"May I inquire as to why?" At Harry's frown, Kenilworth adds, "It's not vulgar curiosity. Knowing the reasons being the changes will better enable me to properly draft the new terms and provide counsel, if necessary."

Harry does not want to tell Kenilworth about the duel, but it's probably best if the solicitor knows that there's a likelihood that this new will be read in the very near future.

Kenilworth is predictably shocked. "My lord, how could anyone challenge _your_ honor?"

"It is a misunderstanding that my … lack of foresight precipitated," Harry offers as an explanation.

"Surely an apology could be offered?"

Harry shrugs. "I tried, it was deemed insufficient." He waves a hand, dismissing the subject. "So you see, I need to be prepared for all contingencies."

"May I ask, who has offered you such insult?"

"You may ask, Counsellor, but I will not tell."

Kenilworth nods. "Then let us proceed with all speed." He makes certain that the clerks have space to write - one to draft, the other to take notes, and the business of modifying Harry's will commences.

Three hours later, Kenilworth reads back a summary of the final revisions. "All personal property not otherwise specified as a bequest and all unentailed real property, together with income, will pass to Gary Unwin, currently residing in Morton Crescent, as fee simple. Additionally, Mr. Unwin will inherit eighty percent of the your beneficiary accounts in Kingsman. The remaining twenty percent will be added to the bequest to Hamish McRae, currently residing in London, at this address. Mr. McRae may continue to reside here for however long he wishes, free of rent or other requirement."

As Kenilworth continues to list the changes, a great sadness settles over Harry. The Hart line could end in ignominy and he can feel the weight of his family's disappointment. Not just Perran's, but his sire's, too. Harry had been at loggerheads with his sire, Colan, almost since Harry had learned to talk. Perhaps because Harry had, in looks and temperament, taken after his grandsire, and Colan Hart had spent a lifetime trying to distance himself from _his_ father's wild and often lawless ways.

It is ironic that Harry's emulation of his grandsire's proudest moment will likely lead him to his death.

"My lord?" Kenilworth interrupts Harry's dark musings.

"Yes?"

"Stephens has finished drafting the final version, you need to read it before signing."

Harry does, taking the time to make sure that everything is how he requires. Eggsy will want for nothing, and if he chooses to marry, he will bring a fortune to whichever lucky Alpha he selects. 

An idea hits him, so ugly, so repugnant, _so perfect_ , that he can't believe it hadn't occurred to him before now.

"Lord Hart, is everything all right? Did we make a mistake?"

Harry looks up. "No, everything is in order." He picks up a pen and is about to sign, when Kenilworth interrupt him and summons the clerks.

"They must witness your signature. That's why I brought them. You don't know how many wills fail because someone gets lazy and asks the servants to witness, servants who are beneficiaries. Can't have a beneficiary as a witness." 

Harry's tuned out what the solicitor is saying - he couldn't care less. With the two young men standing at his shoulder, he signs the new will and the clerks sign as witnesses, noting their addresses, occupation and employer. As a courtesy, Harry gives each of them a guinea and Kenilworth dismisses them. But the solicitor doesn't leave.

"My lord, may I offer my services as an intermediary? Perhaps I can intercede with the aggrieved party or their representative?"

Harry shakes his head. "I am afraid not. I am not wholly sinless in the matter and perhaps they have good reason to doubt my honor." He smiles and stands, offering Kenilworth his hand. "But thank you, you've given good service to me, and to Kingsman over the years. I wish you and your family well."

Kenilworth isn't a foolish man, and he recognizes that he is being dismissed. "Well, all I can say is good luck and that in a week or so, we'll convene over a nice roast beef and some good ale at my club and have a laugh over this. After all, you will have your wedding to celebrate."

"My wedding?" Harry had said nothing about a wedding to Kenilworth.

"Miss Unwin, of course - she is your intended, no? Is that not why you've made her your heir?" Then Kenilworth turns pale. "I've rather put my foot into my mouth, haven't I? Miss Unwin is the cause of the duel."

Harry grimaces. "Please, just let it be."

Kenilworth nods. "Well, all right. I will." He takes his leave and Harry collapses into his chair, all thoughts of legal matters forgotten in the wake of his terrible realization.

Roxanne Morton is in love with Eggsy, and she will make a fine Alpha husband for him. A better one that Harry, if just because she isn't twice Eggsy's age.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's been a long time since Merlin has been this tired.

It's the aftermath of the rage and self-loathing that had kept him awake last night, the price he has to pay for the anger that drove him to Mistress Jeanne's boarding house this morning, intent on extracting information from Morton using any method he had to. 

It's also the cost of watching Morton slaughter the damn doctor and cleaning up afterwards. Merlin's done clean-up before, in similar situations. The last time, quite ironically, had involved Harry and Katherine Spenser - the last Lancelot and the Alpha sister to the late James Spenser Morton. They'd gone after a trio of British officers who had a habit of kidnapping and raping local Omegas. The pair of them had taken heads, hands and genitals back to the town elders as proof that their children had been avenged.

Merlin had volunteered to dispose of the remains. The stench of burning flesh will be inexorably tied to his memories of hot, dry nights in Spanish hill country.

Today, he hadn't needed to torch Cronin's remains; he'd just needed to wrap the body up in winding sheet - conveniently supplied by the doctor herself - find a spot near the river and dump the weighted corpse into the Thames, with no one the wiser. 

Merlin still has to deal with the maid, Della. That girl deserves a bad end as much as Cronin did, but he will not take care of her tonight. Tonight, Merlin wants to go home, bath the stench of death off his skin and somehow find the strength to tell Harry that he's failed him. That he had forgotten the blood-oath he'd made to Harry so many years ago. 

That he's not worthy of either the name that Harry's given him, or the blade he's carrying.

Lucius opens the door for him and in a moment of startlingly bad manners, wrinkles his nose and steps back. The butler recovers and bows, saying, "My apologies, Master Merlin."

Merlin doesn't take offense, he knows how rank he is. "It's all right. I'm well aware of the problem. Is Lord Hart out?" He hopes that Harry's at the club, taking care of business as usual.

"No, sir, Lord Hart is home this evening. Shall I tell him you've returned?"

"No, not just yet. I need to see to myself first, then I'll speak with Lord Hart."

"And if he asks for you?" Harry is notorious for sensing when Merlin returns home.

"Tell him I'll be with him as soon as I can." Merlin heads up to his rooms, a suite as luxurious as Harry's own, complete with a private water closet and a bathing chamber with piped in hot and cold water. Tonight, more than any other night, Merlin's grateful for that luxury, that he doesn't have to call for maids and pot-boys to deliver buckets of water and stand around waiting for Merlin to finish so they can then empty the tub.

The bath does wonders for washing away the grime and the blood; he drains and refills the tub twice, but soaking in the hot water doesn't do much to cleanse the stain on his soul. Merlin hasn't felt such desolation since he'd been clapped in irons for killing a few rabbits and sent to the wilds of Canada as punishment. He wonders if a similar banishment is in his future.

Merlin slides deeper into the tub, muscles falling into lassitude. It would be so easy to just let go, to let the water take his failure and lost honor forever …

It's only timely knock prevent him from drowning in his own bathwater. It's a footman bring up a dinner tray, courtesy of Lucius.

Except the footman is not alone, Harry is with him.

The footman leaves the tray on a small table by the tub and departs. Harry pulls up a chair and hands Merlin a towel to dry his hands before he gives him a sandwich. The only thing he says is "Eat".

And Merlin does. Until he takes that first bite, Merlin would swear that the last thing he wants to do is eat, but while his mind wants to reject the need, his body knows better. Harry hands him various bits of food and drink until the tray is empty and the bathwater is cold.

After almost four decades of friendship, many of them living in close quarters with little privacy, Merlin doesn't think twice about climbing out of the bath, although he has a bit of emotional awkwardness as Harry acts as _his_ valet and wraps him first in a towel and then in a robe.

"My lord, please."

"Shh, let me take care of you, old friend."

Merlin shakes his head. "No, let me dress and we'll talk."

Harry looks like he's about to argue, but gives in with a sigh. "Very well. Meet me in the library."

Ten minutes later, just as the hall clock chimes eight, Merlin enters the library. Harry's sitting in front of the fire, a glass of scotch whiskey in his hand and a decanter and a second glass on the small table at his elbow. This is a familiar scene, Merlin can't count the nights he's spend in this very room, sitting across from Harry, slowly getting drunk with the taste of Scotland, of home, on his lips.

Tonight, he doesn't take the offered libation; Merlin needs a clear head for what he has to say, what he has to do.

Harry breaks the silence. "I've had regular communications from Mistress Olwyn throughout the day. The first one arrived this morning, while I was breaking my fast. She wrote that you had some very urgent business to attend to today, but that you trusted her to watch over Eggsy."

Merlin rubs the back of his neck. This is another instance where he'd let Harry down. Harry had asked him to remain with Eggsy during his heat, to make sure that Eggsy had everything he needed, that he was safe and well. While his excuse for abandoning that duty had been a good one, nothing excuses not letting Harry know that he needed to attend to something. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not telling ye that I had to leave for a while. For not heading back to Richmond to take up my responsibilities when I was finished, instead of coming here."

"Whatever reason that made you leave Richmond and come home looking like death and smelling like murder was, I don't doubt, a good one."

"Ye are too kind, Lord Hart."

Harry pulls back, as if slapped. Merlin rarely, if ever, uses that appellation, especially in private, especially when it's just the two of them. "What is the matter?"

Merlin gathers his thoughts. He has to do this now, before he loses what remains of his honor. He reaches underneath his coat, and takes out that blessed - and cursed - blade. "I don't deserve to have this anymore." Merlin puts the dagger into Harry's hands. "I don't deserve the trust and the faith ye've place in me. Not anymore."

"Merlin - "

"I've failed ye, Harry. I've betrayed yer trust. I'm not worthy of yer friendship, yer respect."

Harry pushes the blade back to him. "No, there's nothing you could ever do that would make me take this from you."

It must be the exhaustion, because Merlin can't hold back a sob as he shakes his head. "I've wronged ye, Harry. Ye trusted me and I've been disloyal."

"No, Merlin. Whatever has happened, whatever you think you've done, you'll never make me believe that you've been disloyal." Harry takes his hand and spreads it flat. There's a scar there, the mark from a sharp blade. Harry traces that thin line and then shows Merlin the matching scar on his own palm. "You are my brother, and nothing you could ever do will change that."

Merlin grips Harry's hand, hoping that this could be true, but the only way he'll know is when he tells Harry what has happened, what he's done.

The words spill out, a cascade of shame and pain. "I was angry at ye, angry that ye were manipulating people, twisting them, making them dance to yer tune, just because they stood in the way of something ye wanted."

"You're talking about Chester King, and his spawn."

"Aye - and I know that they are a pair of gobshites. Maggots with human faces, but it doesn't set right. Ye're Arthur, ye're everything that a Kingsman's supposed to be. Ye send me and Bedivere and Tristan to kidnap yer mate - a poor young Omega who ye were treating as a pawn. It all felt wrong, and I couldn't find a way to tell ye that ye were making a mistake. That ye didn't have to act like yer grandsire, ye didn't have to be a spy anymore. Ye could do things the right way."

Harry doesn't say anything, but Merlin takes hope. Harry hasn't let go of his hand, either.

"I thought, perhaps, it would all work out right. The kitling called ye on yer bullshite, he made ye see that ye were behaving like some bloody autocrat, and ye learned from that. Ye did yer best to make things right, ye offered the lad a choice."

"But?"

"But still, I wanted to see ye knocked back a peg. That's my dishonor, my shame. Eggsy fell into yer lap and - " Merlin can't continue.

"You were jealous?" Harry still doesn't let go of him. "I'm sorry, Merlin. I should have seen it."

"Not like that, ye great idiot - "

"I know, not like that." Harry laughs a little. "It's been just the two of us for a long while now. You've been the keeper of my secrets, my faithful ally in all things, and without a thought, I tell you that I've found my mate. That changes everything - it has to. And I still expected you to follow me, to do as I ask - the repugnant things that I don't want to dirty my hands with. Of course you're jealous." Harry squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry."

Merlin's not so willing to accept this apology - it all feels wrong. He's the one admitting to a sin, yet Harry wants his forgiveness.

"The duel - that's my fault."

"Oh? How do you see that?"

"I should have shown Morton the door. Told her to come back, and if she wouldn't leave, had her removed. I should never have let her get past me. But - but I did. I wanted to see what she wanted from ye. I didn't know she was looking for Eggsy, but that's no excuse.

"And when she took ye down, something in me was satisfied, pleased that ye were getting what was coming to ye for being such an autocratic git. Even after Morton issued the challenge, I was still pleased. But then ye said pistols - and, and…" Merlin shakes his head, unwilling to give voice to his fears.

"What should I have done, my friend?"

Merlin flinches at the soft, almost affectionate tone in Harry's voice. "Ye should have picked swords - no matter how well trained the cub is, she doesn't have yer reach. Ye could have pinked her and let honor be satisfied. Instead, ye decided to be stupid and noble and ye said pistols."

"You don't think I can hit Morton at ten paces?"

"I worry that yer not even going to try, ye bastard. There's no way yer going to harm a hair on Percival's cub's pretty little head. She might kill ye and all because I was too caught up in my own pride to do the one thing I should have – protect ye."

Harry finally releases Merlin's hands, but he doesn't let go of Merlin. He reaches up and cups Merlin's head, bringing their foreheads together. "You have always done that, my Merlin. But I'm not a child and you can't stop me if I run headlong into fire."

Merlin laughs, just a little. Hadn't Tristan said the same thing this afternoon? "I can still try."

Harry kisses Merlin's forehead and lets him go. "You were wrong about not telling me I was making a mistake. You warned me when I first started down this path. I chose not to listen to you."

Harry is right; in his distress Merlin had forgotten that conversation; and another conversation after that. And perhaps a third or fourth. Harry had been adamant that Chester King would ruin his plans – and Eggsy – if Harry had signaled a legitimate interest.

"And as for what had happened with Morton, that isn't your fault either. She could have accosted me on the street and made her challenge. She could have found me at the club – "

"No one gets past Casca, Harry."

"She did, once. And she has an ally inside the club, too."

"Really? Who?" Merlin can't think of a single employee who'd risk such a betrayal.

Harry just shakes his head. "It's not important. I've dealt with it."

Merlin wants to say that it's his job to deal with such unpleasantness, but until he tells Harry everything, he doesn't know if he still has a place at Harry's side.

"There's something else, Harry. Something worse."

"Does it have to do why you came home stinking of death? I saw your clothes, there was blood on your cuffs." Harry sighs and shakes his head. "Did you kill Roxanne Morton?"

"Nay." Merlin clenches his fists. "Although I came close this morning."

"Tell me, _broder_. Tell me what happened." Harry uses the Cornish word, so similar to Merlin's beloved Scots, that it unlocks Merlin's tongue.

"Ye have to know, telling ye means I have to break a promise I gave to Eggsy." Merlin doesn't give Harry a chance to ask questions, he just continues. "Yesterday, after Morton issued her challenge, she insisted that yer intended be examined by a doctor."

"I remember. Is that the problem? Did the doctor find something that would slander Eggsy? Because I don’t care. He's an adult Omega who's had a life outside of the confines of Society. What he's done before has no impact on my intentions."

"Nay – it's not that at all."

"Then what is the problem?"

Merlin looks Harry in the eye and tells him. "Eggsy didn't want to be examined – he was furious at Morton for insisting on it, he begged me not to make he go through with it. His word, my word, should have been good enough. I told Eggsy it was a matter of honor."

The look on Harry's face is terrible. "What happened?"

"I thought all the doctor would do would be a simple, cursory exam, she'd ask him a few questions in confidence. So I left Eggsy there with a maid and the doctor and her assistant. Eggsy told me that she forcibly drugged him, stripped him, and violated his privacy." Merlin shakes his head, "Violated him."

"Please tell met that you killed the doctor." To a stranger, Harry would sound unnaturally calm, but Merlin knows that tone all too well. That tone bodes well for no one.

"No, Morton did. With my help."

"Morton? Why would you let her do your work?" 

"Because she was the one who had called the doctor. Turns out that she knew the doctor from when James was alive – James had used her in hopes that she'd help fix him, after all of the miscarriages. Turns out, she had a hand in James' death, too. Fed him drugs. Morton took her vengeance against that fucking pissbag like a Kingsman – stuck the knife in Cronin's gut and kept twisting it until she got the answers she needed. Pulled it out and cut off the doctor's ear as a souvenir for Eggsy. When it was done, Tristan and Bedivere took Morton back to her rooms and I disposed of the body. No witnesses."

Harry stands up and paces and doesn't say a word. Merlin hopes that his own demise – at his lord's hands – will be a little more merciful than what he'd witnessed this morning.

Finally, Harry turns back to him. "Why didn't you tell me?" For the first time this night, Harry sounds angry at Merlin.

"Eggsy had begged me not to." Merlin shakes his head. "I would have killed the doctor myself, but Morton took responsibility for what happened to Eggsy. I gave her the knife, but she didn't need me to hold her hand."

Harry drops back into his chair and runs his hands through his hair. "Is this what has you so wretched?"

"I failed ye. I failed yer intended. I put stupid English notions of honor before what was right. I should not have ignored Eggsy, never should have told him that honor demands his compliance. I should have known…" He buries his face in his hands.

"Yes, of course you should have known that a doctor would violate her oath to do no harm. You are, after all, a wizard, Merlin."

The dryness in Harry's tone startles Merlin and he looks up. 

"I'm furious at you for not coming to me, but I understand why you didn't. You must have known that if you told me what the doctor had done, I would have gone to Morton's rooms and killed her on the spot."

Merlin nods. "Aye. That had been my first thought." 

"You were protecting my honor."

"Always." Merlin whispers.

"Then there's nothing more to discuss."

"Harry – "

"No more of this foolishness about betrayal. I've been an ass and deserve a kick in the pants. And as for Eggsy – well, it's really a moot point now. I've let my own consequence blind me to the truth."

"What do you mean?" Merlin is puzzled, not just by the words but by the sense of loss in Harry's tone.

"Morton – she's in love with Eggsy. And more than that, she's a much better mate for Eggsy. She's young and healthy. She'll marry him, give him a family, and be able to give Chester the boot. And she's already avenged his honor. There's nothing more to be said on this score."

Maybe it's the relief that Harry isn't going to kick him out – or worse – that makes Merlin speak his mind. "Yer a fucking idiot, Harry Hart. And when did ye become such a coward?"

"Excuse me?" Harry is now doing his best imitation of an enraged peacock.

"Ye heard me. Yer an idiot and a coward." Merlin leans back and waits for the inevitable explosion.

"Do you have a death wish?" Harry picks up the knife, unsheathes it and points it at Merlin's throat.

"Oh, give it up, Harry."

"No. Explain yourself."

"Ye think that ye'll make a noble sacrifice, let young Morton have yer perfect Omega because she's young and handsome and stands to take control of a rich estate. Ye think that Eggsy would be better off with someone with two eyes and two dozen less years. Yer just too cowardly to fight for the kitling. Ye too afraid that he might actually prefer her."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Because the kitling's all but told me that he loves ye. He gave ye hell, but he accepted yer courting bracelet."

Harry refuses to be mollified. "Morton would still be a better mate for him."

"If that's true, if ye think that Morton's in love with yer darling, then why haven't they made a go of it? Why haven't the pair run off to Gretna Green and gotten themselves married already? What ever ye think that's between Morton and yer mate-to-be, it's not romance. Eggsy's twenty-six, Morton's twenty-four. She could have married him years ago. She could have gotten him pupped at any point since he arrived at Morton Crescent, but she hasn't touched him."

Harry frowns. "I hadn't thought of that. And why hasn't she? I know that Chester King had been worrying that his ward might do just that. That he'd been planning on letting his son ruin Eggsy for anyone else. All Percy's cub had needed to do was share one heat with Eggsy to get herself an heir and a mate and Chester would be out of a lucrative estate to plunder when she turns twenty-five. He'd have to murder them all to keep his hands on Morton Crescent."

"Which is a possibility, knowing King. But I don't think that's the reason why Morton's kept her hands off of Eggsy. I don't think she's ever even considered Eggsy Unwin as mate material."

"Why? Because Eggsy's not good enough? His birth's not high enough?" 

Merlin wants to laugh at Harry's outrage, but that might just be pushing it. "No. Because I'm fairly sure that young Morton is much like our Tristan."

It's is a pity that Merlin lacks even the slightest bit of artistic talent, because he'd loved to have captured to look of dumbfounded shock on Harry's face. "You're telling me that Roxanne Morton prefers Alphas?"

Merlin nods. "For almost twenty years, I've watched our Tristan flirt with the best and the worst, and I know what an Alpha looks like when Tristan's engaged their interest. I have no doubt that Morton's interest in engaged."

Harry leans back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "That might explain Tilde."

"Tilde, as in The Black Hart's resident whore-master? What do she have to do with Morton?"

"Tilde prefer Alphas, too." Harry explains Tilde's attentions towards Morton and how Tilde had given Morton the information that lead her to Harry's front door. 

"I trust you put the fear of God into her."

"I tried. She had an answer to everything."

"Do you want me to take care of her?" Merlin never had much to do with Tilde or her whores; if she's compromised Harry's safety or the security of Kingsman, she needs to be put in her place. Which might just be at the bottom of the Thames, along with Doctor Cronin.

"No, not at all. No need to get violent." Harry's happy again, now that his idiocity about Morton's been settled. "So, Eggsy told ye how he feels about me?"

Merlin reaches for the decanter and pours himself a dram; he can relax now that he and Harry are back on an even footing. "Aye, ye great numpty. And ye already know that he cares deeply for ye. He told ye himself."

"True. He accepted the courting bracelet. And he did kiss me."

"He kissed ye? I thought - " Merlin bites his lip, not wanting to slander his lord.

"You thought what, that I compromise Eggsy in my own home?" 

"I thought that perhaps ye were overcome by Eggsy's heat." Merlin's cheeks heat up; he's embarrassed but the idea thatHarry had been overcome by lust.

"I have control over my body. It's just my arrogance that seems to have no bounds." 

"True enough." Merlin drains his glass. He wouldn't mind a second - or a third - but he has to get something off his chest first. "Eggsy's worried that you'll think him unworthy, after what happened with the doctor, that he couldn't fight her off."

Harry vows, "I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to Eggsy, if he'll let me. What happened is not Eggsy's fault - "

"I told him that, but he's still worried. And he didn't want you to know, so you'll have to be gentle." 

"Yes, I can do that." Harry gets up and adds some wood to the fire. "We have other business to discuss, if you are up to it."

"Other business?"

"The Lancelot trials."

"Oh. Yes - right. Have you heard back from our fellow Kingsman?"

"I've gotten responses from Kay, Gareth, Gawaine and Bors. They will be here. With you, Tristan and Bedivere, and myself, we have more than a quorum. The only ones who haven't responded affirmatively are Gaharis, Agravaine and Lamorak; they are travelling on Kingsman business. And of course, we've never replaced Percival."

That sparks a question in Merlin's mind. "I wonder - should we offer Morton a choice? She can take Lancelot or Percival."

Harry shakes his head. "No - she was proposed for Lancelot. The trials will be hard enough without her sire's name hanging over her head."

"It would make for an effective final test, though."

"No, I have a better idea." Harry goes to the hidden room and comes out with a familiar box - the one that holds the mate to Merlin's dagger. "Cronin. I suspect that that had been Morton's first taste of true violence. Let's see how she deals with it."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**The Morning After the Lancelot Trials**

Eggsy emerges from his heat sore and hungry. He's also furiously angry.

A bath takes care of the first problem, and a meal will fix the second. A set of brand new clothes helps to calm the fury, but only to the extent that Eggsy can leave his room feeling like a gentleman, not some weak and helpless thing to be manipulated by people who are supposed to be his friends.

No, not people. A single _person_. 

Lord Roxanne Morton.

Eggsy's not angry that she'd chased him down in London, and he can even get over being mad that she'd interrupted the most important moment in his life. But he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive her for not listening to him, letting him explain that he was at Harry's townhouse of his own free will. That she insisted on that terrible and invasive medical examination - as if he was some feeble minded child whose word could not be trusted. 

But the anger Eggsy feels about that pales in comparison to his rage at Lord Morton's insult to Harry's honor. He's sick at heart about the duel, the very idea that Harry could be hurt because of Eggsy's actions makes him ill. He knows he should be worried about Lord Morton, but he can't seem to find any concern for for her within him. Lord Morton brought this disaster upon herself, and Eggsy doesn't know what he'll do if she hurts Harry - or worse - kills him.

Eggsy unlocks the door and leaves his room. There's a young Omega maid and footman sitting on a bench, waiting for him - the pair had hauled up the bathwater for him. The maid asks if there's anything she can do while the footman takes a bucket and goes to empty the bath.

"I'd like to see Mistress Olwyn, please."

The maid curtseys and takes him to the small dining room where breakfast is waiting. A few minutes later, Mistress Olwyn enters. "Good morning, Miss Unwin. How are you feeling?"

"Well enough." That is the truth as far as Eggsy is willing to admit.

"Would you care to break your fast?" 

"Yes, please." For the last three days, Eggsy had eaten during the intervals when his heat had waned, consuming whatever was on the tray left by his door, enough to sustain his body when his heat arced. But the energy his body expended has left a deficit - it always does - and Eggsy all but grabs the plate that Mistress Olwyn has prepared for him. Experience forces Eggsy to eat slowly so he doesn't make himself sick, and eventually he feels satisfied.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Eggsy suddenly realizes how much time has passed and asks, "Is Lord Hart all right?" 

Mistress Olwyn gives him a curious look. "As far as I know, he is. I had a message from him late last evening, asking about you. I expect another message this morning - he has been asking about you four times a day since your retreat."

Eggsy is relieved; the duel hasn't taken place yet. "Is Master Merlin in residence?"

"No, but I can send for him."

"Please do." Eggsy would rather talk to Harry but he doesn't know if Harry will want to talk to him. It's just easier to go through Merlin to find out what's happened.

And once he's done with Merlin, Eggsy will need to talk with Lord Morton and give her a piece of his mind.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	14. Conflict

The late afternoon light strikes Roxy’s eyes, making her moan and shut them again. Her head pounds. Her mouth tastes as if something has died in it.

“Water,” a soothing voice says. Roxy gropes gratefully for the cup, and drinks. A moment later the light in the room goes dim, and she tentatively reopens her eyes.

Tilde sits on the edge of her bed – Tilde’s bed, in Tilde’s gorgeously appointed chambers, on the top floor of the brothel she runs – and smiles at Roxy. She’s gloriously naked except for a red silk robe which, being untied, leaves nothing to the imagination. Roxy looks down at herself. Beneath the sheets, she is also naked.

“How much wine did you drink last night?” Tilde asks.

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question, because I have no idea,” Roxy croaks. “I – ”

“You stumbled to my door, drunk as a skunk, an hour before dawn – lucky for you I keep late hours – ”

Roxy chokes, memory coming back. “Did I actually tell you – ”

“That you had been told to either find a drink or a whore?” Tilde grins. “Lucky for you I’m not the easily offended type.”

“It’s just that I’d drunk enough already,” Roxy fumbles, desperately aware that as apologies go, this is about as terrible of one as the one Harry Hart had tried to offer her for kissing Eggsy on the cusp of his heat, “and my blood was still singing – ”

Tilde kisses her. Roxy kisses back, head spinning.

“Young lord, you’re hardly the first to come back from a battle in need of reminding of the pleasures life holds,” she murmurs when they part for breath. “It’s been a while since anyone has come for me personally; you understand, I don’t take clients anymore. But I enjoy companionship. And I find myself quite flattered that you found your way here, drunk as you were.”

“You made quite an impression,” Roxy breathes.

Tilde smirks. “How much of last night do you remember?”

When Roxy closes her eyes, she still sees Harry-as-Cronin, leering at her, and the shades of her parents, calling her home. “Enough,” she whispers.

“Say rather, _too much_ ,” Tilde concludes, and pulls Roxy back down onto the bed.

* * *

The next waking is a softer, pleasanter one. Roxy’s recollections have dimmed, as if the chambers of memory are lit as this room is, by only a few candles. The sun has fully set, and the room is in shadow. The soft illumination makes the room feel comfortable, familiar. Roxy’s chamber at Morton Crescent is often lit so.

A rustling from one corner of the room draws Roxy’s attention. Tilde is in the last stages of dressing, selecting a daringly dangling earring for her left ear. Roxy props herself up on her elbow, watching her.

“You can light more candles, if you wish,” Roxy says at length.

The flash of Tilde’s teeth as she smiles is brighter than any of the flickering tapers. “I’m not even looking,” she says, holding Roxy’s gaze as she dabs rouge on her lips.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Wear make-up, and earrings.”

“You mean, why do I dress in some ways like an Omega?” Tilde closes her eyes to brush powder over them. “For two reasons. The first is the one I tell most of those who ask – and most of the lords _do_ eventually ask, though it can take them years. Because it titillates. The lords who take years to ask spend those years wondering. Thinking of me. It wouldn’t work if I weren’t in the business of selling bodies already. But as it is, it’s good business, to keep your clients on the edge like that, eager for something you have.”

Roxy nods slowly. “And the second reason?”

Tilde’s smile becomes smaller, closed-in and secret. “Because I enjoy it.” She runs a hand down her clothing, and Roxy notices the cut – not quite classic, not quite _a la mode_ – an extra ruffle here, a daring slash there. Extra, and daring, until one compares the choices with Omegan fashions, and sees that they are in fact quite conventional…

“Do you wish you were an Omega?” The question is out before Roxy can stop it. She’s wondered herself, so many times…

“No. I like being myself. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Roxy breathes. “Oh, yes.”

“It’s easier for me.” Tilde’s gaze is touched with pity, now, and Roxy turns away, flushing beneath it. “No one expects dynasties out of a procurer.”

Roxy thinks of Tilde’s pity long after Tilde leaves; long after Roxy herself rises, dresses, thanks the young whore who brings her some meat-pies and freshly shined shoes. She thinks of it while she walks back to her lodgings, having left word to Tilde that she’d return as soon as she could. Thinks of it as she reaches into her pocket for the latch-key – it being long after any respectable household is abed – and finds her fingers running over her birth-stone instead.

She may be a Kingsman now, but there is no war abroad to fight. Roxy’s battlefield right now must be Morton Crescent. And that means she must mate. Her preference for Alphas matters not at all, next to her heritage. Next to her land and all her people. She’s been willing to kill for honor and duty; she must certainly be willing to live for them.

Roxy dozes a little, not really tired but not really alert, either, her body’s natural rhythms thoroughly disrupted by a sleepless night filled with adrenaline and then a day alternating sleep with sex. By dawn she’s sponged herself down in yesterday’s unused wash-water and redressed in clean clothes. Feeling slightly more human, she goes down to breakfast.

“Good morning, Lord Morton,” the maid says as she enters the breakfast-room. “Will you be wanting a newspaper?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The breakfast-room is blessedly empty this morning, free of Tristan and Bedivere, both, probably, still sleeping off the excesses of the night of the full moon. They’ll be back soon enough, still tied to her by their role as Roxy’s seconds. And Roxy intends to make use of them for this new project: Earl Aberlundy and Baron Dunwell may know just the right Omega for the position of _Arlodhes_ Morton.

 _I must remember to emphasize honesty_ , Roxy reminds herself as she chooses eggs and kippers. _This will be an eyes-open arrangement. I will provide the title, a generous allowance, the utmost respect as a life-partner, and the fulfilment of my marital duties as necessary to beget heirs. We will both be free to pursue our interests._

Put like that, it sounds like the setup for a romance novel. But Roxy is sadly aware that there is no love story waiting at the end of this mating.

Still. Her duty is clear. If one of the _ton_ can be found to mate with Roxy under those terms, well and good. If not, she will seek a mate among the merchant class, offering her title to the socially ambitious. If all else fails, and Midsummer looms with no prospects, Roxy intends to apply to Tilde. She is fairly certain that _one_ Omega among Tilde’s employees will be interested in the bargain Roxy offers. Percival’s will makes no stipulation about the gentility of Roxy’s mate: so she is mated, she inherits. For the sake of her bloodline, she will attempt an equal match; for the sake of her duty, she will accept anyone who will enter the mating in good faith.

The maid re-enters the room. Roxy pays her no mind, thinking she’s come to check on the buffet, but looks up when the maid clears her throat. She bobs a curtsey as soon as Roxy’s gaze lands on her and holds out a folded three-cornered envelope. “A note for you, m’lord.”

She unfolds it quickly. It’s from Merlin. Eggsy has come out of his retreat, and is asking for Roxy to visit him.

“Any reply, sir?” the maid asks, while Roxy sits there staring at it. “The man’s waiting.”

“Which man?” When the maid looks at her in surprise, Roxy rises. “He’s at the door?”

“Why, yes – ”

Roxy goes out the door and down the hallway. As she’d half-guessed, Merlin himself is standing in the entry hallway.

“Eggsy?” she asks superfluously.

“Safe.”

“And?”

“Spitting nails, as well he might.”

“You have a carriage?”

“Just came in from Richmond meself.”

“Take me there.”

Merlin nods. “Aye.”

* * *

Eggsy receives Roxy in a small parlor just off the entrance of the cottage in Richmond. It’s a beautiful room, papered in a pale yellow, with ample sunlight pouring in the large paned windows. The furniture looks new. The view is of a tidy little park – little, by necessity of being so close to Town, but well-tended, and profuse in its flowers. Many of those flowers are also in evidence in the parlor itself, perfuming the air gently from their cut-glass vases. Roxy knows quality when she sees it. The room breathes riches. And if Roxy’s dividends are anything to guess by, Harry Hart is a wealthy man. Wealthy, titled, and apparently besotted with Eggsy. Who would have thought that a month which began with kidnapping and terror could end in such comfort, such prospects?

Roxy fiddles with the box in her hand. It’s Cronin’s ear: she’d brought it to give to Eggsy, but in this delicate bower it suddenly seems crude. Is this what Omegas like? Maybe Eggsy will help Roxy with her quest for a mate of her own. She’s hopelessly out of her depth, but Eggsy will know how to begin. She should have thought of Eggsy first, rather than forgetting old friends for new ones.

Eggsy turns to face her from where he’d been gazing out the window. He’s changed, too. His clothes are no longer the well-cared-for but much-used garb given every servant, even the seniormost, on the estate; someone, probably Hart, has given Eggsy the services of a tailor. A barber, as well. And perhaps those clothes, that grooming, are responsible for Eggsy’s newfound air – the tilt of his chin, the set of his shoulders. Or perhaps it’s the bracelet on his wrist. Rubies and pearls: the colors of the marquessate of Cardoc. Hart’s colors.

 Roxy swallows and sets the box aside on the nearest table. Instead she approaches Eggsy empty-handed. Merlin, who had entered behind her to play propriety – Eggsy’s courtship notwithstanding – fades back into a discreet corner.

“Cronin is dead,” she says gently, guessing that to be the biggest of Eggsy’s worries, the reason his face is so shadowed. “I can only beg your forgiveness for calling her in the first place. You may have heard that I called her specifically. It’s quite true. She had attended my carrier, and for that reason I trusted her. I knew nothing of her true character. I – ” she swallows. “I’m so sorry, Eggsy.”

Eggsy looks past Roxy. “What’s in the box?”

“Cronin’s ear.” Roxy feels unaccountably embarrassed. “I thought you might like it. I – I can take it with me if you don’t.”

“Yes, do that.” Eggsy’s gaze shifts back to Roxy. “I don’t – thank you, but that’s not necessary. I don’t need the ear. I – Cronin wasn’t your fault. Merlin told me about _Arlodhes_ James. I’m sorry he went through that too.”

“Thank you,” Roxy whispers.

There’s a pause. Then Eggsy faces Roxy squarely. “What I don’t understand is – why did you do it in the first place?”

“Call Cronin? I thought you might need a doctor.”

“I told you I was fine.”

“We had no time to discuss the matter.”

“We didn’t need to discuss it. You broke into Harry’s house, interrupted us, and then ignored me when I said I was fine.”

Roxy conceals a frown. “You will recall that you had been kidnapped,” she says. “That you were, in fact, still in the presence of your kidnapper.”

“Lord Harry did that to protect me,” Eggsy says mulishly.

“A most fortunate outcome – ”

“I could have explained that to you, if you’d given me the opportunity.”

Roxy shivers. “If Hart had been something other than he is, I don’t want to think about how badly he could have hurt you if I’d brooked any delay.”

“He wouldn’t have hurt me!” Eggsy has the gall to look aghast at the mere suggestion. “He’s wonderful!”

“I am glad to know that now.” Roxy keeps her voice even. “Recall that I had no way of knowing that then.”

“You could have _asked_ when you broke into his _house_ – ”

“Eggsy, he could have slit your throat in an instant.”

“He wasn’t even armed!”

“I am glad to know that now,” Roxy repeats.

“You’re not _listening_ to me.” Is Eggsy _pouting_? “Lord Harry was behaving honorably. He’s courting me!” He raises his hand to show off the bracelet – not with the gentle inclined wrist-sweep that a bred lady would use, but all but shoving it into Roxy’s face. “He wants to mate with me!”

Roxy sighs. “And I’m glad about that, but – ”

“It’s offensive that you would ever think otherwise!”

“Eggsy, he owns a gambling club,” Roxy says, exasperated. “He partners with a _brothel_. He went _along_ with Chester’s plan to _buy_ you for the cost of Charlie’s gambling debts, and scheduled that purchase to coincide with your heat! What part of that broadcasts honor?”

“ _I was fine_.”

“I couldn’t know that.”

“You could have listened to me tell you!”

“When?” It’s a struggle to keep her voice level, now, but she doesn’t want to fight. She thinks that this is something Eggsy doesn’t understand, any more than Roxy understands about wall hangings and flowers and courting gifts. “You had been kidnapped. Anything you said in front of Harry – you could have been afraid for your life. You could have been saying what you thought he wanted to hear, to try to protect yourself. If that’s true, any delay could have been fatal. If you were telling the truth, there would be plenty of time afterwards to understand.”

“But there wasn’t, was there? You didn’t even come and talk to me, you sent in that doctor instead – ”

“Eggsy!” He stops and stares at her; she stares back, bewildered. “Do you really not see that I couldn’t be alone with you after that?”

No look of understanding illuminates Eggsy’s face; no indrawn breath, no sign, of acknowledgement. He shakes his head, futile.

Roxy tries again, fumbling to put into words concepts that are so ingrained in her as to be subconscious. “We all wanted to be sure you were safe,” she tries. “Hart and I. Well, he couldn’t trust me – ”

“Of course not!”

Roxy has to stop and swallow back an unexpected wave of feeling. “You don’t seem upset with him.”

“Why would I be upset with _him_?”

“You could have told him _he_ could trust _me_.”

Eggsy doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that.

Roxy goes on. “He couldn’t trust me. He wouldn’t want me to be alone with you. And I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t let _him_ be alone with you. Nor could I trust that you would be able to speak freely in front of him, or anyone else in his household. If you were in real fear of him – any of his servants could have carried tales.”

“What were you afraid of?” Eggsy seems to have found his voice now; he hurls his words at Roxy like knives. “Okay, so say you came and talked to me with – with Merlin in the corner – ” out of the corner of her eye, Roxy sees Merlin start, but ignores it to focus on Roxy. “And I said something Harry didn’t like – so Merlin tells Harry about it, maybe – and then what? What were you afraid of? Lord Harry going to go out of his way to, to _punish_ me for it?”

“It’s what someone like Charlie would do.”

For a moment, Eggsy is visibly taken aback, and Roxy thinks she’s finally found the right words to help him understand. But then Eggsy’s shoulders stiffen, and his chin comes up. “Don’t you ever compare Lord Harry to Charlie again,” he hisses.

“Eggsy – ”

“No! Now _you_ listen. Lord Harry is a good man. A good Alpha. Yes, I was kissing him in London – I _wanted_ to kiss him, and I did! He wouldn’t have touched me, it was my decision! Do you know what King was going to do to me? Well, you didn’t save me from that. Lord Harry did. You sat at home and played lord of the manor, and you let me go off to that fate, and if Lord Harry hadn’t saved me, then all those horrible things _would_ have happened to me. You think you’re charging in here like the hero of the story, but you’re not any better than Chester King.”

A moment passes. There’s a pounding in Roxy’s ears. She closes her eyes and tries to find her calm. Surely Eggsy has not just compared her –

Eggsy finishes, “I’ve got a good Alpha in my life now, and I’m going to stick with him.”

Roxy opens her eyes. Says, precisely, “Alphas of sense, whatever you may think, do not want silly mates.”

Eggsy’s jaw drops. Roxy watches with interest, having never seen the reality of this phrase she’s read of in books so many times. She’s aware, on a distant level, that’s she’s furious. But unlike at her Lancelot trials, the emotion doesn’t consume her. It seems to hover around her like a shield, protecting her from feeling anything at all. She looks at Eggsy coldly, watching him gape like a fish.

“We have spent our conversation thus far discussing matters from your perspective. Let us now consider mine,” she informs him. “The first indication I had that my uncle was up to something more nefarious than his usual was when _your carrier_ came sobbing into my room begging for my help. Since then, I have read my uncle’s private correspondence; stolen from Morton Crescent – you know Chester has absolute control over the estate? And all of its property? my horse, my clothes – myself, even – he could have the law on me for taking off Morton Crescent. Which I left behind, for Chester to do God knows what with – and before you accuse me of valuing land over lives, do _try_ to remember that there are people, quite a lot of people actually, living and depending on that land, whom Chester will do his best to bleed dry in my absence. Not to mention that every cent I spent bringing myself to London, and keeping myself here, is a cent not available to repair the roofs or the dams or whatever else goes foul in my absence and under my Uncle’s mismanagement. That’s assuming I ever get back to Morton Crescent at all. Murder is, I believe, a capital offense. And even Merlin is as competent at hiding a body as I believe him to be - did you know that Chester tried to have me committed to an asylum three years ago? Oh yes; he wants Morton Crescent for Charlie, and not incidentally for himself, since his sister has no love for him and won’t support him in his old age. That time he failed, but ‘running away from home to rescue a clerk’ is the sort of thing that might get the asylum to reconsider.” Roxy has been approaching Eggsy, one step for every accusation, and her voice has been rising, too. “So before you accuse me of being no better than Chester King, consider this. The great sin you level against me is apparently that I could not read your mind and discover that you wanted to be kissed by Hart. But Chester? Uncle Chester didn’t put you in that carriage because he thought you and Hart would live happily ever after together. He put you in that carriage because he was paying off one of Charlie’s debts. He sold you for _money_ , to someone he knew through their mutual – illegal – business and it was absolutely his full intention to sell you to someone who would rape you, abuse you, and discard you. I risked greatly to try and save you from that fate. And do you know, Eggsy?” She stops just short of him, refusing to touch him. “If Uncle Chester had been right about what sort of man Hart is – you would have been _glad_ that I had.”

Eggsy has turned a dull red. His eyes are bright, but she can’t tell if any tears he might cry would be tears of remorse or of frustration and rage. He raises a hand, almost as if he’s going to strike out at her. She braces herself for the blow – she’ll be damned before she lays a finger on him, as much as he might deserve a paddling for acting so much like a child – but then his hand falls, and instead he fumbles something out of a pocket.

“This – ” Eggsy holds it up so she can see. “ – is the letter Lord Harry wrote to me after we met the first time.”

“Would that be the time when, not knowing whether or not Harry could be trusted, you prudently acted as if his intentions were nefarious and threatened to stab him before he could heat-rape you?”

Eggsy half-snarls at her. “Will you never believe that Lord Harry’s a good person?”

“Will you never believe that that was something I had to _learn_?”

The letter hits Roxy in the chest; Roxy catches it out of sheer reflex. It’s only two or three sheets, nothing more. There’s no cause for it to feel quite so heavy, or for its impact against her ribs to feel like quite such a blow.

“Make sure you leave it behind when you’re done.” Eggsy glares. “I trust Master Merlin will be able to show you out.”

For the second time, the shadow in the corner stirs. “Kitling – ”

“Not a word,” Eggsy says, petulantly furious. He strides around Roxy without a second glance. The door does not – quite – slam shut behind him.

There’s a silence. Then Merlin starts, “Morton – ”

“Merlin, would you be so kind as to call for the carriage?”

“Lad – ”

“I’ll wait here.” She holds up Eggsy’s letter, or rather, Hart’s. “I appear to have some reading material.”

Merlin hesitates. “All right, lad,” he says finally, going out the door.

Roxy sits down – for the first time since she’s arrived; Eggsy hadn’t offered Roxy a chair – and opens the letter. As she’d seen, it’s short. Hart expresses himself rather more warmly than Roxy would feel comfortable doing to an Omega on such short acquaintance, but Eggsy seems to have liked it. Perhaps kidnapping is an exception to the usual mode. Certainly the rules of courtship and proper behavior Roxy had learned seem to have nothing to do with the way Eggsy and Hart have chosen to go about it.

And here she’d been thinking about asking Eggsy’s advice on how to go about courting. If nothing else, this has pointed up the need for such a step. Roxy’s angry words have reminded her, too, of her duties to the estate. She’d hared off after Eggsy in the genuine belief that he had needed her help, but Eggsy is wearing Hart’s bracelet now, and there are dozens more back on Morton Crescent who need Roxy. Who need their rightful liege lord.

Eggsy’s words do have _some_ grain of truth: if she’d had control of her estate, Chester could never have tried to sell Eggsy into whatever horrible fate he’d expected Hart to have in store. Until now that has been impossible – Roxy’s hands are bound by the terms of her sire’s will. But at Midsummer she will be twenty-five. And on that day, if Roxy cannot claim her inheritance, then she will have no one left to blame but herself.

Roxy folds the letter back up, setting it in plain view upon an end-table, propped against one of the flower vases. She has to hope that, despite the behavior he’s shown today, Eggsy will secure Harry’s lasting affections. If he does, Eggsy will have a wonderful life. Filled, no doubt, with wonderful friends. Roxy can be happy about that, at least.

“Good luck, Eggsy,” she says softly to herself. “Happy courtship.”

* * *

The carriage is ready when she emerges into the main hallway. She half-thinks to walk back to London, but that’s pure foolishness: besides, the carriage will carry Hart to see his beloved on its way back to Richmond, so its journey will not be wasted. Merlin tries to speak to Roxy several times, but there’s really nothing to say, so his attempts never get very far.

“Eggsy’s still reeling, you know,” Merlin tries finally. “Once he gets his head on straight, he’ll be ashamed of the way he’s behaved.”

Roxy merely nods. She hopes so, for his sake: she’d meant it about Alphas not wanting silly mates. Though perhaps Hart’s own flair for the dramatic will suffer much. He _had_ thought kidnapping and mate-buying a valid solution to Eggsy’s troubles, after all.

Well, it’s out of her hands now. Eggsy has most thoroughly disclaimed any guardianship Roxy might have or protection she might wish to offer. Roxy has others to concern herself with, and so her mind occupies itself on the way back to London with a simple checklist. It’s fortunate that the Season is in full swing: it’s only eight months to midsummer, and it would be well to be mated and settled before the estate formally becomes hers. Chester will no doubt hang on tenaciously until the last moment. Roxy is looking forward to having the legal right to tell him to get off her land and never come back.

As she’d half-expected, Tristan and Bedivere are lounging about in Mistress Jeanne’s neat parlor. “There you are,” Tristan says, getting to her feet as Roxy enters. “Mistress Jeanne said you’d gone to Richmond and thought you might not be back tonight, but I made sure you would be – you’re to face Harry tomorrow, after all.”

“Oh,” Roxy says, remembering. “Yes. But that’s not important.”

“Not important?” Tristan blinks. Bedivere, still reclined in an easy-chair, sits upright in surprise.

“No – it shall be soon enough over, and then it will be no more concern of mine. What’s more important – ”

“Hold hard,” Bedivere says. “No more concern? I thought Eggsy Unwin was a great concern of yours.”

“He does not wish to be,” Roxy says as steadily as she can. “That is, of course, his choice to make. Besides, he will be very soon mated to Marquess Cardoc. So he is settled. I must now concern myself with those to whom I yet have a duty.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I must mate,” Roxy says. “You recall the terms of my sire’s will. I would like to ask another favor of you – not as fellow knights, but as fellow nobles. Surely Earl Abernathy and Baron Dunwell cut some figures in Society. I need to be introduced, as soon as possible, to an Omega who would be interested in a mutually beneficial arrangement with me.”

“A mutually beneficial arrangement,” Bedivere says flatly. “Such as?”

“I need a Countess. By midsummer. Of course they would have free run of Morton Crescent, a suitable allowance, and they can be assured of my complete discretion, once the matter of heirs is settled. If you know of anyone who might be interested in such a bargain, I would be obliged if you would introduce me to them.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in such things,” Tristan says. Her voice is soft, and a little afraid. Of what? Roxy doesn’t think of herself as frightening, but after all, Eggsy Unwin had found her so, at their last meeting. Cronin had certainly found her so. And she had passed the Kingsman trials to become a knight. Perhaps she has always been frightening – perhaps this new person she is becoming isn’t so new after all, but had always been there, held in check only by lack of opportunity. Perhaps this is what Percival had seen in her that had made him try to deny her her inheritance, or else bind her so tightly that it would be safe even if it did pass into her hands. A mate is supposed to be a steadying influence, after all, and age is supposed to bring maturity.

“I am interested in my land and my people,” Roxy says to Tristan. “I will do what is needed to protect them. My intentions are honorable. I have, I think, something to offer, which someone else might not despise. Perhaps there is someone in a similar position to be found, who has no turn for romance, but would bind themselves in earnest to one who would do the same…”

“You have more of a turn for romance than you are willing to admit,” Tristan says. Now she sounds sad.

“It matters not.” Roxy turns away. “The will is the will. The law is the law. I know my duty. Will you help me?”

There’s a silence, broken by the rustling as Bedivere finally gets to his feet. “I believe there is a gathering three nights hence that would suit you,” he says. “Lady Musgrave’s garden-party. My aunt is great friends with the Musgraves. If I apply to her, an invite ought to be forthcoming. I’ll introduce you around if Tristan won’t.”

“I’m not invited,” Tristan says brusquely. “I’m never invited to these kinds of things.”

“Because no one thinks you’ll come,” Bedivere says. “You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in the _ton_ ; there aren’t _that_ many unmated Earls.”

“There’s at least one more,” Tristan says. Roxy feels the weight of Tristan’s gaze, heavy against her back.

“The Honorable Miss Townley will be there.” Bedivere sounds thoughtful, now. Roxy, turning back to face them, sees Bedivere squinting up at the ceiling. “She’s an orphan, and she and her guardians are at loggerheads. Despite that she’s turned down three offers. Says she doesn’t want to be trapped again. Could be she hasn’t much turn for romance, either.”

“You can’t be serious,” Tristan says to Bedivere.

“Why not?” Roxy demands before Bedivere can answer. She turns to him. “I look forward to meeting her.”

“You’ll need clothes,” Bedivere says. “Not to offend…”

Roxy looks down at her suit and manages a smile. “Country fashions,” she agrees, thinking of Eggsy in his new finery, flaunting a courting-bracelet under her nose. “I suppose my mate, whether Miss Townley or any other, will prefer to see me better dressed.”

“At least during the courting. Which leads me to another question.” Bedivere trails off tactfully.

Roxy shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking along these lines when I left home. A visit to a jeweler, at least, seems to be in order.” James’ jewels are actually with Roxy, brought as insurance against a need for ready funds, but there’s no need to give them up. Not with access to the dividends from the Morton Kingsman shares, sitting compounding for the fifteen years since Percival’s death. Nor does Roxy wish to reuse them for sentimental reasons: rather the opposite. “A bracelet to begin with; but perhaps I will defer the other purchases, to allow my intended’s taste freer reign.”

“You’ll need other courting-gifts as well.” Tristan seems to have regained her footing in the conversation, though she still sounds subdued.

“We can visit the shops.” Bedivere steps to the door. “We’ll use my carriage; it’s better for this sort of thing. Ho there!” The page-boy comes running.

“Why, what’s wrong with your carriage?” Roxy looks to Tristan, while Bedivere gives the page-boy directions to the Dunwell townhouse and sends him off at a run.

“I keep a curricle,” Tristan says. “It certainly won’t hold three: not to mention any purchases you wish to carry away on the spot.” She pauses. Says, quietly: “I had thought that you might come riding with me in it one day.”

“We’ll be better off with mine. Or rather, my carrier’s,” Bedivere says, coming back into the room. “I’m too often away to maintain a carriage myself. But if we’re to be shopping all afternoon, we’d best have luncheon before we go. Lancelot?”

She nods, and, avoiding Tristan’s gaze, goes to ring the bell.

* * *

Shopping had never been one of Roxy’s pastimes before, but then again, she’d engaged in it so rarely. Her clothes have usually been made by Morton Crescent’s resident seamstresses; as for hats, gloves, and the like, a selection are usually sent up by the local shop, the desirables retained and the undesirables returned. Roxy had never kept much of a closet anyway. Her few jewels are all family pieces. Except for her one Season, Roxy has never really gone shopping in Town. And even then, Ademilia King had done much of the shopping for Roxy, with one hand clawed tight around the purse-strings.

Now Roxy finds herself, through the power of her Kingsman shares and the magic of compound interest, to suddenly be a young lord of unencumbered means. Of course the majority of this newfound wealth must be saved for the restoration of Morton Crescent. There is much deferred maintenance to be done, and even more in the way of investments for its future. But this, too, is an investment in Morton Crescent’s future: a worthy _Arlodhes_ who will help Roxy put things to rights. So when Roxy realizes, as they clatter down the street from the haberdasher’s to the jeweler’s, that she’s enjoying herself, she doesn’t scold herself or try to squash the feeling. Tristan, too, seems to shed some of her ill-humor as the day wears on. She tucks a daring flower into Roxy’s button-hole as she’s getting fitted for her new suits and positively insists on the green waist-coats, saying they bring out Roxy’s eyes. Bedivere remains his usual stolid self throughout, but Roxy thinks she’s learned enough of his tells to see that he’s not displeased to take on the role of fashion-tutor instead of sword-tutor for a change.

They stay out rather longer than Roxy had expected – she’s woefully ignorant of all the things a young lord needs to be properly turned out, as Tristan and Bedivere demonstrate – but at length, after an evening meal at Tristan’s club, the Dunwell carriage takes them back to Mistress Jeanne’s lodging-house. Roxy hops out alone: the carriage will convey Tristan home next, before finishing its labors at the Dunwell townhouse for Bedivere’s benefit.

Despite Tristan’s predictions, Roxy has no boxes she’s carried away. Everything is being sent to Mistress Jeanne’s, though both Tristan and Bedivere have offered Roxy house-room for the duration of the Season, so Roxy’s stay will only comprise another few days. She must get through the duel before she can begin courting. But after… Roxy has a smile on her lips as she waves good-night to her friends and turns in at Mistress Jeanne’s door. The future is beginning to look promising.

“My lord, you’re back!” One of the maids practically throws herself at Roxy’s feet in relief and gratitude. “And the duke sitting here all this time, and us not knowing when you’d return, and her saying she’d wait, wanting every little thing, and didn’t we know how to contact you – ”

“Duke?” Roxy stares. Her first thought is of her uncle, but Chester’s no duke – only a lord, and that only by courtesy, as a younger Alpha. His sire’s title, and now Ademilia’s, is only Earl. Think as Roxy might, she can’t recall any dukes who tolerate Chester’s acquaintance. Nor – upon reflection – are there any dukes within Kingsman’s ranks; Hart’s title of Marquess is the highest in precedence. So then what duke could possibly come to Mistress Jeanne’s, calling for _her_?

She asks, “Did she give her name?”

The maid twists her hands in her apron, urging Roxy down the hallway. “The Duke of Kilderry,” she all but squeaks. Before Roxy can process this, the maid throws open the parlor door, curtsies low, and – still squeaking – says, “Lord Morton is here, your Grace!”

Roxy steps in to the room, wondering.

The figure sitting in the easy-chair closest to the fire rises majestically. Gwendolyn Spenser, the Duke of Kilderry, is perhaps an inch taller than Roxy, whippet-thin, with steel-grey hair a spine so straight that a young Roxy had once thought Morton Crescent’s seamstresses could use it as a needle. That had been during one of Kilderry’s all-to-few visits to Morton Crescent – visits that Roxy can barely remember; visits that had stopped even before James had died. Nor had they ever resumed, though her orphaned grandcub might reasonably have been supposed to need her remaining family more than ever…

Kilderry’s spine, and her height, are seemingly the only things that _haven’t_ changed about the duke. In Roxy’s memory, Kilderry’s hair had been a rich, dark brown; her face had been smooth – or at least, smoother – and her hands had been gentle as she’d tossed Roxy up on her pony. Now the hand Kilderry offers Roxy is spotted with age, leathery. Roxy stares at it, unsure.

“Are you that angry at me, then?” Kilderry asks, a little sadly.

That starts Roxy, and she looks up from her contemplation of that hand to meet Kilderry’s gaze. “No,” Roxy says truthfully. “Not angry; simply…” she remembers her manners. Turning to the maid, she says, “More refreshments for the duke, please, and some for myself. We’re not to be disturbed.” Turning back to Kilderry, Roxy gestures to the easy-chair. “Shall we sit, Grandsire?”

The maid squeaks again on her way out. Roxy conceals a sigh. 

“At least you remember me.” Kilderry settles back into the easy-chair with a huff. Roxy stiffens, but before her anger – close to the surface, after a day like today – can be fully roused, Kilderry goes on. “I wouldn’t blame you if you’d forgotten me. I’m ashamed to realize how far I’ve forgotten _you_.”

Roxy swallows her first response at this candor. Instead she says, cautiously, “What kept you away?”

“Many things,” Kilderry sighs, “all of which seemed meaningful at the time, none of which seem to matter anymore.”

Roxy waits to see if Kilderry will expand on this. When she doesn’t, Roxy goes on: “What brought me back to your attention?”

“That’s more the question.” Surprisingly, Kilderry leans forward, offering a slight but unmistakable bow. “Congratulations on your success in the trials, Lancelot.”

Ah. Roxy should have known: in her mind’s ear she hears Harry Hart – Arthur – saying, _James knew what he was mating into. His sire, the duke, was once Lancelot._

Roxy essays a bow in return. “I am all the more glad to see you, then; not only for our kindship, but for the reminder you offer me.”

“What would that be?”

“That there are ways to retire one’s knighthood other than death.”

Roxy had meant this as a light pleasantry, and a compliment on her grandsire’s advanced age, but instead of taking it so, with proper pleasure, Kilderry grows grave. She doesn’t speak for a moment. When she does, her voice is somber.

“I am one of the few,” she tells Roxy. “The Lancelot between us was not so fortunate.”

Roxy leans forward, attention caught. “You sound as if you know them.”

“I should. They were my cub – your carrier’s elder sibling.”

O _h_. _Yes._ “I begin to learn how much of my own family history I never really knew,” she says. “She died before my sire, didn’t he? I remember – Percival changed his will. It was to be she, not Chester – ” she strains to remember her name, that long-dead relation she had met, to remember, only once. “Katherine,” she says.

“Yes, Katherine was to look after you if anything happened to Percival,” Kilderry agrees. “When Katherine died, Percival changed his will. He asked me if I would consent to being your guardian and trustee. I refused the charge.”

Roxy’s breath leaves her in a rush. “I didn’t know that,” she says, involuntary.

“You have asked me two questions. Now I have a question for you.” Roxy looks up, and Kilderry asks it. “You said that you were not angry with me. You may not have known that I refused the charge of guardianship, but you certainly knew that I did nothing for you – never visited, never even wrote, certainly never helped you in any way. Why aren’t you angry with me?”

Roxy shrugs, a little stiffly. “Katherine died,” she says slowly, “and James went to stay with you for a month, while the funeral was being held, and when he came back, he said you were – unwell. And then not even a year later my sire died, and then my carrier, and Chester King came to Morton Crescent…” She holds up one hand, palm up, empty. “Everything changed,” she says simply. “So comprehensively, so abruptly, that for a time I could think of nothing but putting one foot before the other when I came down the stairs. I pitched down the stairs more than once, those first few weeks… the housemaids started putting someone to watch if they heard me coming…” Roxy sees the first gleam of pity in Kilderry’s face, and shakes her head violently. “It was a long time before I realized that you hadn’t come, but once I realized that you _hadn’t_ , I knew right away that you never _would_ come. And that seemed natural, somehow. Everyone else had gone away and left – of course you would do the same.”

“Roxanne…”

“Roxy. I was always Roxy. Don’t you remember?”

Kilderry bows her head. “I do not.”

Roxy just nods. “So – that’s your answer, in its own way. I simply had other things to worry about. I had Morton Crescent to take care of, my tenants to protect, I had to try to keep Chester in check… I didn’t know why you weren’t my guardian, but it was all of a piece with the way things were. I had to take care of myself. I didn’t have time to care about those who didn’t care about me.”

There’s a knock on the door. Without looking away, Roxy calls, “Enter.”

The maid comes through the door, managing a curtsey even with her hands full. She refills the pitcher at Kilderry’s elbow and sets a glass on the table for Roxy, too. Roxy sees without interest that Kilderry has chosen to drink cider instead of wine or ratafia. She allows the maid to fill her own glass, and set out the tray of finger sandwiches and biscuits.

“I asked you a question before,” Roxy says, taking control of the conversation as soon as the door closes behind the maid, before Kilderry can do the same. “I asked, what brought me back to your attention. You learned of the Lancelot trials – of course. But that doesn’t explain why you chose to come here.” She waves her hand, taking in not just Mistress Jeanne’s parlor and boarding-house, but all of London, no mean journey from Kilderry’s estates in Kent. “You could have written, if you’d wished to resume contact.”

“Perhaps I wished to do more than that.”

“Because you’d heard I’d become Lancelot?”

“Something like that.” The duke studies Roxy; Roxy meets her gaze unflinchingly. Kilderry says, apropos of nothing: “You’re to fight Arthur with pistols tomorrow at dawn?”

“Yes.”

“I met the Omega in question. Spunky young thing. Not afraid to speak his mind.”

“No,” Roxy has to agree, thinking of her last meeting with Eggsy. “He certainly isn’t.”

“He’ll do well for Arthur, I think.”

Roxy makes a noncommittal noise.

“Oh, yes, he still has some maturing to do,” the duke concedes. “But I gather you’ve been a very good influence on him. Actually, when I saw him earlier today, he asked me to pass on a letter to you.”

Roxy stares. She stares further as Kilderry holds out an envelope, sealed only in plain wax, with _Lord Roxanne Morton_ written on it in Eggsy’s secretarial copper-plate. Mechanically she takes it and puts it in her pocket. She has no idea what it could contain, though she knows what she’s afraid of – but either way, that can be for later. It must be for later, as Kilderry is already speaking again.

“I’ve fought a duel or two in my time,” is what she’s saying. Her gaze goes briefly unfocused in memory. “Do you know what I’ve learned?”

“What?” Roxy asks, putting the letter firmly out of her mind.

Kilderry smiles. “There’s always quail flying about at dawn in that neck of the woods,” she says, surprisingly, “and they are absolutely delicious when served for dinner.”

Roxy blinks. She certainly isn’t thinking of Eggsy or the letter now. All of her focus is on Kilderry, and trying to puzzle out the meaning of this non sequitur.

“You don’t follow me?” Whatever Kilderry sees in Roxy’s face makes her smile. “Well, keep it in mind, anyway. Will you mind very much if I come out to witness?”

“You don’t want deniability?”

“You’re my grandcub. If something happens to you, I want to know.”

That gives Roxy to think. “I’m not your heir,” she says slowly. “I would have heard – _Chester_ would have heard – and if something had happened to my cousin, if I’d had a duchy for Chester to try to steal, nothing would have stopped him from dropping me in the well and claiming I’d slipped.”

“Nothing has happened to your cousin,” Kilderry reassures her. “He’s finishing at Cambridge this term. I’ll be bringing him out next Season, most like.” She hesitates. “He’ll likely be embarking on his trials at the same time,” she says, oddly diffident. “Perhaps you’ll sponsor him?”

The penny drops. “You wanted him to be Lancelot,” Roxy says with sudden, awful certainty. “You were Lancelot, Katherine was Lancelot – you expected my cousin to be the next. You didn’t come all this way to wish me joy. You came to yell at me for taking his position.”

“That’s not exactly – ”

“No, of course not.” Roxy has already realized her mistake. “You didn’t come to yell at _me_. You didn’t even know who had become Lancelot. You just knew that _someone_ had. _I_ remained no one to you – you came to yell at _Harry_.”

Kilderry bows her head again, just as she’d done when she’d had to admit that she hadn’t remembered to call her grandcub _Roxy_ and not _Roxanne._ “You are correct,” she admits quietly. “I received the call to conclave. Normally I wouldn’t come – I’m retired, and I certainly can’t take part in the trials; the call is sent to me only by courtesy. But when I saw that it was for Lancelot, I had to come. I had to ask why Harry would let the title pass from my family. If we had failed him somehow...”

“I _am_ your family,” Roxy says.

Kilderry makes an impatient gesture. “I know, but – ”

Roxy nods slowly. “But I am not a Spenser.”

“He didn’t give me your name,” Kilderry says defensively. “Only Arthur and their sponsors know a candidate’s real name, unless they are successful.”

“And Merlin,” Roxy says, wry.

Kilderry offers a tentative smile. “You’re learning well.”

“No. I am learning slowly. As with so many other things, I knew nothing of Kingsman a week ago.”

“How is that possible? Percival – ”

“Kept it from me. Everything is kept from me.” Roxy’s eyes burn; so, it seems, does her heart, twisting in her chest. “You are lucky, you know. You have someone – Arthur – you can turn to; you can ask Arthur how and when you disappointed him. I can never ask my parents.”

Kilderry says, unexpectedly: “You can ask me.”

“What?” Roxy swallows. Her voice had come out as a croak.

“I said,” Kilderry repeats, gently this time, “you can ask me. I’m one of the people who kept things from you – who kept away from you. But I am here now. You can ask me.” When Roxy still says nothing, Kilderry says, “Roxy. Ask me.”

Roxy has to reach for her untouched cider, use it to wet her throat. She fumbles putting it back down. Some of the liquid splashes over the side of the glass, damp and cold on her hand.

“Ask,” Kilderry says a third time.

 _Third time lucky,_ Roxy thinks.

“What did I do to disappoint you?” she demands. Her voice starts out as a whisper, but as she goes on, it gains strength: “Why did you abandon us? Why didn’t you come back for James after Percival died – he _needed_ you, he’d been there for you when Katherine died, but when he lost his mate you were nowhere to be found! And when I lost both of them, lost everything, where were you?” There’s wetness on Roxy’s cheeks now, and it’s not from cider. Nor is it really from just this conversation. It’s from everything, bursting out of Roxy all at once, a lifetime of repressed questions and doubt and dumb lost questioning. “You left me there! You left me to all of that – everything – you could have _helped_ – you could have shown me how to go on, shown me how to be a good Alpha, put Chester in his place – told me about Kingsman, about my shares – sponsored me when I had my Season, helped me find a mate so I could claim my inheritance – even without being my guardian there was so much you could have _done_!” Roxy shakes her head wildly, tear-tracks going cold on her cheeks. “What did I do to disappoint you _that much_ , that I wasn’t even worthy of that little?”

“Nothing,” Kilderry says simply. “It wasn’t you. It was never you. You could have done anything you’d pleased, good or ill – I would never even have known.”

“But then why – ”

“Because of _me_ ,” Kilderry interrupts. “Because my children were dead, both of them. Because I was guardian suddenly to Katherine’s only child, your cousin, my heir, and I could so little bear to look at him that I sent him to school without even hugging him, and when he comes to Kent after graduating this spring, that will be the first time since Katherine’s death that he has spent more than two weeks together under my roof. Because I was broken, and grieving, and had nothing left for anyone else – not even those whose claims on me should have been stronger than my grief. Because.” Kilderry stands up suddenly, reaching out towards Roxy. “Because I forgot my duty,” she says, quietly now. “And I think I was not the only one. I think Percival forgot his, too. That pustule of a Chester King probably never even knew there was such a thing as duty. But it had nothing to do with you. It never did.”

Roxy scrubs the heel of her hands over her eyes, tired suddenly, too tired to hide. “I have always tried to do my duty,” she says dully.

“I know, little cub.” That makes Roxy look up, pulling her hands away from her eyes to stare at Kilderry. “You have been the only one of us who held to her duty, when those who should have been caring for you forgot theirs. I am so glad you are Lancelot. You deserve the title.”

“Thank you,” Roxy whispers. “But my cousin – ”

“Perhaps he will be Percival,” Kilderry says. “It matters not. Roxy, will you – can you see your way clear to forgiving an old Alpha? If you’ll permit, I’ll make you every amends in my power.”

For a moment – only a moment – Roxy hesitates. There’s an old, old hurt inside her. It wants her to stamp her foot and declare that she’s made it this far on her own – in spite of everyone – and she’s going to keep on going that way, to return spite for spite, nursing her own terribly wounded pride.

Then she thinks, suddenly, of Eggsy – of accusing _him_ of childishness – and then of him writing her a letter of apology, and asking Kilderry to give it to her. For what else can it really be? Anything else Eggsy might wait to say to her until after tomorrow’s duel is decided. But an apology – on the off chance that Roxy is fatally injured – an apology can’t wait. Eggsy’s letter says _friendship is worth more than pride_. And, like a true friend, he’s sent that message to Roxy just in time to keep her from making a worse mistake.  

Roxy stands, reaches back towards Kilderry, and for the first time in too long, lets herself be embraced by family.

* * *

The sky is still dark when Roxy, Tristan, and Bedivere arrive at the forest beyond Richmond. There’s only the barest sliver of a moon, only two days after it had been new. The stars are brighter, though they’re fading, one by one, as the first glow begins to make itself seen over the horizon.

As the challenger, Roxy is the last to arrive. Hart is already present, with his second, Merlin. Some ways behind them a closed carriage is parked. Its curtain flutters: someone is within. Kilderry, perhaps.

Bedivere goes to stand midway between Roxy’s party and Harry’s. There’s another person already there, an Alpha. Roxy was told to expect him. He’s is a doctor; an old friend of Harry’s, from the war. Kingsman apparently are prone to affairs of honor: Bedivere gives the doctor a cheerful nod, and they fall at once into light conversation.

Tristan ranges herself besides Roxy. She’ll be serving as Roxy’s second, having won the coin toss, to Roxy’s private relief. Somehow, Roxy hadn’t been comfortable just picking Tristan outright. Roxy knows Bedivere would have respected her choice, would have understood that she has nothing but fondness and respect for him regardless: that hadn’t been what had stilled her tongue. Roxy isn’t quite sure what _had,_ in truth. But thankfully the coin had come up heads, and it’s Tristan at Roxy’s side, just as she’d wanted.

“Roxy,” Tristan says suddenly, and Roxy turns.

“What is it?”

“There’s something – I – maybe this isn’t the time, but – ”

“It’s going to be all right,” Roxy says. She isn’t just saying that: she’s calm within herself, utterly sure that whatever else the future brings, tomorrow’s sun will rise on she and Harry both. Neither of them have come here today to die.

“Good,” Tristan says fiercely. “I – I would like you to have this.”

She pulls something out of her pocket and presses it into Roxy’s hand. It’s sharp-seeming, as if it has a lot of edges. Roxy uncurls her fingers around it and stares. It’s a jewel, an amethyst, beautifully set into a neck-chain. Even in this dim light it glitters, scattering purple fire in Roxy’s palm.

And this isn’t the first time Roxy has seen it. That had been yesterday, at the jeweler’s, after Roxy had finished selecting emeralds and onyxes, specified a design, put down the ready funds, for a courting-bracelet with no intended as yet. Waiting while the jeweler had written up the contract, Tristan had called Roxy over to see it. Looking down at the case, Roxy had thought of Tilde at once: the piece had unmistakably been meant for an Alpha, but there had been a suggestion of delicacy about it, a hint – just a hint – of the thinner, more graceful sweep of an Omegan ornament…

It had left Roxy confused and trembling, unsure how to think or feel. She’d had a vision of buying it and giving it to Tilde, making love to Tilde and seeing it around her neck. And then she’d thought of keeping it for herself, wearing it against her skin – to most eyes, merely a rather unusual piece, but to some eyes, perhaps, a signal, an indication of a certain kind of willingness. She’d thought of wearing it to a garden-party and meeting, not an Omega to become _Arlodhes_ Morton, but another young Alpha interested in a different sort of arrangement altogether. And then the jeweler had called Roxy’s name, and Roxy had turned away with a start, reminded abruptly and cruelly of the realities of her duties and the terms of her sire’s will.

Roxy had left the neck-chain behind in the shop and resolved to think of it no more. But now, here it is, in her hand. She looks up at Tristan. She can’t speak, but her eyes ask the question.

“I saw you want it,” Tristan says, voice low. “And I saw you tell yourself you couldn’t have it. Not just the necklace – all of it. But I wanted to tell you that you _can_ have it. Even if you have to mate – you’re offering a fair bargain, after all. Well, if you give your mate discretion after your heirs are secured, why shouldn’t your mate give you the same?”

Roxy’s lips part. She still doesn’t know quite what to say.

“Will you accept it?” Tristan asks. She sounds terribly proud, and terribly austere. Roxy sees, quite clearly, that she’s neither.

Roxy finds her voice. “Yes,” she says, fumbling with the clasp. “Yes, I – help me – ”

Tristan laughs, a strange sound in the cusping dawn that sounds strangled in her throat. She helps Roxy fix the chain around her neck, and smooths it down, so it rests flat beneath her cravat. Only the edges of it peek out; it lies just the way an Alpha’s neck-chain is supposed to lie, and the silver of the chain is discreet and quite conventional. Beneath Roxy’s shirt, where the world can’t see, the amethyst scatters its daring glow over her heart.

An old lesson surfaces in Roxy’s mind: the shields and symbols of the nobility of Great Britain. “The Aberlundy colors are amethyst and silver,” she remembers.

“Yes,” Tristan agrees. She smiles at Roxy, and says nothing more. Roxy smiles back helplessly.

Dawn breaks all at once, the sun bursting above the horizon in a flash of light. It’s dazzling in comparison to the darkness of a moment ago. Intellectually Roxy knows that it’s actually still fairly dim. But there’s light enough to shoot by, or will be, shortly. Tristan must be thinking the same; she gives Roxy a smile, and a firm nod. “Find your center, now” she says. “You’ve got a duel to fight.”

Roxy takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says. “And after – ”

“After – perhaps we’ll take that ride in my curricle after all.”

Across the dueling field, Hart and Merlin break off their own conversation and turn towards Roxy and Tristan. Hart takes a step forward. Roxy mirrors him. They study each other, and Roxy consciously puts all thoughts of Tristan and necklaces – and Tilde, God – puts those thoughts aside, and focuses on her opponent.

In the trees above, a cacophony erupts. Every bird in the forest starts voicing cries of welcome to the new day. Several flocks take spontaneous wing, including, Roxy sees, a covey of quail. Just as Kilderry had cryptically said: _There’s always quail flying about at dawn in that neck of the woods, and they are absolutely delicious when served for dinner._

No doubt they _would_ be delicious, though how Roxy is to get one for her table in between fighting a duel is a puzzle she hasn’t solved yet. Oh, she could shoot one easily enough, but this isn’t a hunting-party; the only guns present are the pistols she and Harry will be using for the duel itself, and they’ll only have one shot apiece. If Roxy were to use the shot on a quail, then she couldn’t –

 _Oh_. Roxy quite abruptly feels like an idiot. Kilderry had been talking about deloping: shooting at the sky, incidentally at the quail, instead of shooting at Harry Hart himself.

“I’ll be going and getting your pistol in a moment,” Tristan murmurs. “Merlin will ask if there’s any other way this matter can be resolved. What is your answer to be? Will you accept an apology?”

Roxy is watching the quail wheel about in the sky. She touches the pocket of her jacket: inside, Eggsy’s letter of apology crinkles. She’d read it last night, after Kilderry had left, sitting alone up in the Blue Room by the fire. After reading it she’d put it in her coat jacket, already hanging in the closet for this morning’s excursion. Then, buoyed both by Eggsy’s words of friendship and Kilderry’s offer of family, she’d slept peacefully and soundly through the night.

Hart’s apology would be genuinely meant, Roxy knows. She’s come to understand him, throughout this process of challenge and trial and vengeance and family. And she, Roxy, could now accept that apology. But that’s not quite the best way out of this, she thinks. This duel is somehow no longer about Eggsy’s honor; it’s about Roxy’s. About who Roxy wants to be, and has declared herself to be to the world. Accepting an apology and walking away would be an anticlimax. Fortunately, Kilderry has shown Roxy another way, and she will take it gladly.

“Tell Merlin,” Roxy says, “that I’m looking forward to having quail for supper.”

Tristan’s smile is brighter than the dawn. “I’ll tell him,” she says, and walks across the clearing to meet Hart’s second.

* * *

Roxy holds the dueling pistol easily in her hand. It weighs very little, compared to a sword. She cradles it to her chest in the approved position and, at the word, begins to count.

The numbers go by quickly, one pace taken for every one she counts. “Ten,” she choruses, word-perfect to Hart’s count, and turns to face her opponent. Hart raises his pistol to the sky, and Roxy, with a nod, begins to do the same.

Then a shot rings out.

Roxy flinches instinctively, but there’s no impact. Besides, Hart’s pistol shouldn’t be pointed anywhere near Roxy. Roxy looks, sees that this is true. Sees the red stain begin to spread over Harry’s arm.

But she hadn’t fired.

Hart drops his gun and slaps his hand across the wound. The doctor is a sudden burst of motion, running towards Harry’s side. Bedivere is moving, too. Moving towards Roxy. There’s a cry, and the carriage door is flung open: Eggsy Unwin leaps out, diving towards Harry, and his cry scatters the birds from the clearing.

“But I didn’t fire,” Roxy says in stunned bewilderment. “I didn’t – ”

Across the field, Hart sways. His face is going pale. He goes first to one knee. Then to the other. Then, slowly – before anyone can get to him to catch him – before either the doctor or Eggsy can finish covering the distances between them – Harry Hart’s eyes roll back, and he crumples, senseless, to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to real-life factors, the next chapter will be posted on **May 6th**. We hope to see you all again then!


	15. In the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Lord Roxy leaves, Eggsy realizes just how foolish he's been; Lord Hart can't truly want to marry him. To Lord Hart, Eggsy is just an obligation, a way to repay his da, Lee, for his heroism.

In his bedroom, Eggsy watches Roxy leave with Merlin. Merlin turns and looks up, nodding at him, but Roxy doesn't look back. Of course not, why would she?

When he'd given her Lord Harry's letter and stormed out of the parlor, Eggsy had been filled with self-righteous anger and certain that he had been the wronged party. That feeling lasted just long enough for him to reach the sanctuary of his bedroom. Their argument, Roxy's pain-filled expression, her sharp words, his own nastiness, come back to haunt him.

He'd been cruel when he should have been grateful, obstinate when he should have listened, arrogant when humility had been needed.

And now he's lost his best and only friend.

Eggsy scrubs at his face and the cool metal and stones from Lord Harry's courting bracelet brush against his cheek. He looks at it and instead of pride and pleasure, he feels nothing but corrosive shame. He's not worthy of this gift, not worthy of Lord Harry's care and concern and regard.

The bracelet needs to come off, before it's tarnished by Eggsy's common, worthless blood. He fumbles with the clasp, but he can't get unlock the clever mechanism.

How could he be so stupid to think that he is the least bit worthy of a noble Alpha's regard? He's nothing more than Portsmouth trash. Dean used to say - before smacking Eggsy around - that he thought way too much of himself, that there'd come a time soon enough when Eggsy would be no better than the Omega whores that spread their legs in the dockyards and the alleys behind the warehouses. That Eggsy had better wise up and get ready to earn his keep that way, because that's all he'd be good for. Pride is reserved only for those born with a silver spoon up their arse, everyone else has to earn their keep, and Omegas do it on their knees.

Back then, Eggsy hadn't believed that would be his fate. He'd clung to the stories about his real da, the ones he remembers the stranger telling his mum. That his da had been a hero and had saved many peoples' lives. Eggsy had wanted to be a hero, too.

But in truth, he's nothing more than a shameful and selfish coward, hiding behind the fiction of a noble romance. He doesn't believe that Lord Harry has been lying to him about his reasons for the kidnapping, but he also can't really believe that Lord Harry truly has finer feelings for him. He's a war hero, a Marquess, the _Arlodh_ of Tintagel. An Alpha of such stature surely does not tie himself to a common, barely educated Omega like Eggsy Unwin, not if he knows what will happen to him if he does. It doesn't take much to imagine the censure Lord Harry will suffer because of him, his peers turning their backs on him, his friends deserting him. 

All because he convinced himself that he needs to mate with a low class Omega.

A silly and selfish Omega.

Eggsy's finally figured out Lord Harry's rationale for his incredible behavior. It's simple, really. Lord Harry believes he owes a life debt to Eggsy's da and everything he's done for Eggsy is an attempt to repay that obligation. The words in letter that he'd thrown at Lord Roxy to prove that she had been wrong about Lord Harry's intentions - _I find you admirable and lovely..._ \- are nothing more than honey to sweeten a bitter medicine.

Even Merlin's explanation of Lord Harry's reasoning now take on a different meaning. _"He likes ye. And he admires ye. He likes how ye didn't back down to Lord Stinkbottom. He likes, even more, how ye don't back down to him. I've known Harry Hart a very long time, I've seen him do things that would confound ye. They still confound me. But I've never seen him behave in any manner less than honorably."_

_Honorably_. That is the word that Eggsy focuses on. This offer of courtship is Lord Harry's way of honoring Lee Unwin's sacrifice. The compliments Lord Harry had given had been nothing more than polite fiction, a way to ease the way to acceptance.

Eggsy isn't angry at Lord Harry. No, not Lord Harry, _Lord Hart._ He really doesn't have the right to think of the Marquess Cardoc in such intimate terms. Lord Hart had been trying to do what is right, to repay Eggsy's father for his sacrifice. Eggsy had been too wrapped up in his heat and his body's need for a mate - in his stupid and foolish belief that he was living a story out of those ridiculous romance novels - to see what Lord Hart's true reasoning had been.

Another wave of shame overtakes Eggsy, so powerful that his stomach roils and he wants to vomit. 

He needs to leave here. Leave this pretty house with its lovely furnishings and a staff that caters to his every need. 

Eggsy Unwin doesn't deserve such consideration. He's nothing more than a jumped up stable boy, who - by the grace of Lord Roxanne Morton - had managed to become an upper servant in a grand household. And he's shown how little he deserves _that_ , tearing into Lord Morton, expecting her to understand without question that he was safe and well.

He's an ungrateful gutter rat, nothing more than dirty Portsmouth scum, and he doesn't belong here. 

Anxious to get away, Eggsy starts pulling of his fine clothes - another gift from Lord Hart - using his teeth to undo the ribbons binding his shirt cuffs. It takes some effort to get out of the tight-fitting waistcoat and trousers, but soon enough Eggsy's naked, except for the courting bracelet and the heavy gold pendant Lord Hart had given him. He takes the pendant off and places it on top of Lord Hart's other courting gift – his grandsire's chess set. Eggsy will leave those with Mistress Olwyn; she'll see that they are returned to their rightful owner.

He finds his old clothes - cleaned and mended - in the bottom of the wardrobe and puts them on, grateful that they hadn't been turned over to the ragman. His shoes - still with the holes in their soles - are there, too, resting on top of Eggsy's empty satchel. He fills it with his worn-out small clothes, which had been washed and returned to him. The only other things he'd brought with him from Morton Crescent had been a pair of novels that Lord Roxy had lent to him. Those should be returned to their rightful owner, too. He'll leave them with Mistress Olwyn, hopefully she'll know where Lord Morton's staying and make sure she receives them

Eggsy stomach roils again in shame. Lord Morton's risked so much for him and he's treated her like dirt. 

_"The first indication I had that my uncle was up to something more nefarious than his usual was when your carrier came sobbing into my room begging for my help. Since then, I have read my uncle’s private correspondence; stolen from Morton Crescent – you know Chester has absolute control over the estate? And all of its property? my horse, my clothes – myself, even – he could have the law on me for taking off Morton Crescent. Which I left behind, for Chester to do God knows what with – and before you accuse me of valuing land over lives, do try to remember that there are people, quite a lot of people actually, living and depending on that land, whom Chester will do his best to bleed dry in my absence. Not to mention that every cent I spent bringing myself to London, and keeping myself here, is a cent not available to repair the roofs or the dams or whatever else goes foul in my absence and under my Uncle’s mismanagement. That’s assuming I ever get back to Morton Crescent at all. Did you know that Chester tried to have me committed to an asylum three years ago? Oh yes; he wants Morton Crescent for Charlie, and not incidentally for himself, since his sister has no love for him and won’t support him in his old age. That time he failed, but ‘running away from home to rescue a clerk’ is the sort of thing that might get the asylum to reconsider."_

Every single one of Lord Morton's words is a well-earned lash of punishment for Eggsy's selfishness, of his stupidity. She risked everything for him – a servant in her household and he …

Eggsy laughs, the sound hollow and sour in the quiet room. How outraged he'd been at the doctor's examination, how dirty he'd felt, how stained. He deserved that, and more. So much more. And now, Lord Morton and Lord Hart are going to duel, and one of them will end up dead because Eggsy's a stupid, selfish slut who couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Eggsy knows what he has to do, and sits down at the desk to write letters. He might be a failure as a friend, a son, an Omega, but he does have skill with words. 

The first is to his mum. He keeps the tone cheery, telling her that he's doing all right. Building on the half-truths from his last letter, Eggsy writes that he's found a sponsor, someone who'd known his da, and been kind to him and has helped him find employment in London - a better position than with Lord Chester. He tells her a little bit about the funds that had been set aside for his da, and that someone will contact her very soon about giving her control over them so she and Daisy can live independently. Eggsy says that he'll write to her often, but he does not think he'll be able to come home again anytime soon, given he's just started work in London and Cornwall is so far away. He hopes she and Daisy remember him in their prayers, just as he will remember them in his.

He sets that aside and writes a letter to Merlin. Eggsy likes Merlin and - before he'd opened his eyes to the truth of his behavior and the terrible cost to everyone involved - had looked forward to getting to know the man better. This one is difficult to draft and Eggsy ends up starting the letter three times. He doesn't want to sound like he wants Merlin to chase after him and bring him back. Eggsy needs to make sure that Merlin understands the decision he's made is fixed and final. That it has been made with Lord Hart's best interests - something that Merlin should understand, since Merlin's dedicated himself to protecting Lord Hart. 

Eggsy lays out his reasons for leaving in clear, unemotional language, apologizing for any inconvenience he's caused and writing that he hopes that Merlin will take comfort in knowing that Lord Hart's reputation will remain unstained, now that Eggsy is leaving London. He pauses and gathers his thoughts before setting out the most important part of this letter.

_"My primary reason for leaving the generous protection of Lord Hart is to stop the duel that Lord Morton has forced upon him. A duel that had been precipitated by my ill-thought actions. I've realized that I've placed two important people in jeopardy because of my selfishness and the only way that I can undo this is by leaving. If I am not here, under Lord Hart's protection, Lord Morton will have no reason to defend my dubious honor. I would ask that you convince Lord Hart to refuse this duel. I will do my best to explain to Lord Morton that there is no reason to duel, as well. Both Alphas deserve to live their lives without the stain of murder on their souls."_

Eggsy writes out that last sentence and grimaces. Lord Morton has already committed murder on his behalf - Doctor Cronin died because of Eggsy. 

_And more so, because of Arlodhes James._

Eggsy silences that distracting thought. Lord Morton's hands are bloody because of Eggsy, because of his stupid belief that Lord Hart desired him as an Omega, as a mate, that the courting had been real, not just a way to repay Lee Unwin for his heroic sacrifice.

Eggsy seals the letter to Merlin and pulls out another sheet of paper. 

_"Lord Hart –_

_I wish to thank you for all that you have done for me. On careful consideration of the events of the past week, I have, at last, come to understand that your actions with regards to myself were made as a way to honor my father's bravery during the War and to repay him._

_By removing my person from the control of Lord Chester King and the danger he presented, you have more than repaid any debt that you believe you might owe to my father._

_You are an Alpha of great honor and high status, and any formal relationship between us will only cast shade on your name and your family. By returning your courting gifts, I am formally releasing you from any promises that you may have made. I greatly appreciate your assistance, and you must be relieved to know that you have further responsibility to me._

_As there is no longer any obligation between the Marquess Cardoc and Miss Gary Unwin, there is no need for this duel. I have explained to Lord Morton that you have behaved with unimpeachable honor and I only hope that she will agree to call off such a pointless endeavor."_

Eggsy comes to both the end of the page and the end of the ink in his quill. He puts the first sheet aside, takes another, and he hands shake as he dips the quill into the ink pot, sending tiny droplets of black over his fingers. He pauses and struggles to control the overwhelming sense of loss. Whatever Lord Hart feels about Eggsy - obligation, burden, debt - is irrelevant. Eggsy's own feelings are real. He knows that he'll never take a mate, he'll never have a family, because Lord Hart is the only Alpha he will ever truly want. 

A fresh sheet of stationary and with the last of his determination to do right by Lord Hart, Eggsy finishes the letter.

_"I have but one favor to ask of you - and it regards the funds that Kingsman has set aside for my family. Can you please arrange for an accounting and access to be delivered to my mother? I fear that once Lord Chester learns that I was diverted from Cambridge and ruination, he will take out his wrath on my mother and sister. I trust that you will do this final kindness for me._

_Your servant,_

_Gary Unwin"_

Eggsy blots the ink and sands the pages, before sealing them. He writes "Lord H. Hart" on the envelope and sets it aside.

He has one more letter to pen and this one is surprisingly easy to write.

_"Lord Morton -_

_Please accept my deepest apologies for my harsh words this afternoon. I was so caught up in my own state that I thoughtlessly denigrated the great sacrifice you've made on my behalf. I appreciate your efforts and I should have seen more clearly that you were trying to protect me, as a good Arlodh would for any one of her obligations._

_I pray that you do not go forward with the duel with Lord Hart. I know that you are more than capable of shooting him, and I greatly fear for the consequences if you do, especially if you kill him. I worry that if you kill Lord Hart, you will be treated as a murderer and hanged. Or you will be forced into exile and will need to abandon Morton Crescent to Lord Chester._

_I implore you to leave the field to Lord Hart and return to Morton Crescent before Lord Chester can do any further damage to the estate. Perhaps your fellow Kingsman can advise you on how to remove Lord Chester and his son from the management of Morton Crescent, so that you may have a fruitful and peaceful future in the home that you love._

_I hope, at some future point, you will let me tender my apologies in person and perhaps we can heal the breach in our relationship. If not, and our paths cross, I hope we can treat each other with kindness, if just to honor our past friendship._

_Yours respectfully,_

_G. Unwin."_

Although that last paragraph is a lie - Eggsy knows that the breach between him and Lord Morton is fatal - something within him tells him that Lord Morton will need that hope going into the duel. 

Blotted, sanded, and sealed, Eggsy stacks the letter with the others. He fiddles again with the clasp on the bracelet, but it continues to defy his fingers. Perhaps Mistress Olwyn will be able to take it off. Eggsy tries not to remember how happy he'd been when Lord Hart put the bracelet on his wrist, easing open his ribbons, cupping his hand as if it had been something precious, something worth cherishing. 

He banishes the memory – it serves no purpose now - and gathers the letters, the box with Perran Hart's chess set, and the pendant Lord Hart had given to him. Eggsy regrets that he'll never hear the end of the story about Lord Hart's grandcarrier - and puts that into his coat pocket. The room key is left behind - Eggsy won't be back - and he slings the satchel over his shoulder. 

This is a pleasant room and Eggsy will miss it.

Downstairs, in the front parlor, Mistress Olwyn is horrified. "Leave? You wish to leave here?" She reaches out and tries to take Eggsy's satchel off his shoulder. "You can't leave!"

Eggsy steps back, out of her reach. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"I don't understand. Of course you want to be here, you're Lord Hart's intended. He's told me that you have no family in London, and that this is a temporary accommodation until he finds a noble sponsor for you. He has said nothing about you leaving here." The panic in the housekeeper's voice sets Eggsy's already raw nerves on edge.

"I think we all misunderstood Lord Hart's intentions. He had believed that I was in danger and took action to save me. But the danger has passed and there is no need to keep up any pretense."

"But he's courting you. Lord Hart has been quite clear on that score. When he sent me here, he told me that that I needed to make this house a home for a proper Omega, one who is most important to him." Mistress Olwyn's face has turned bright pink and the ribbons on her cap shake.

Eggsy sighs and tries to explain, "Lord Hart believes he owns a debt to my da – my father – and he wants to repay that obligation. That is what he meant when he talked about importance."

Mistress Olwyn shakes her head. "No, no – you are mistaken. He told me you will to be his Marchioness and you need to be treated accordingly."

Eggsy ducks his head and smiles sadly. "Lord Hart is a very good and worthy Alpha, and I think, a bit inclined to go overboard when he realizes that he might be indebted. He does not need to shame his name and family by associating with me. His debt has been paid in full." Eggsy holds out the chess set. "This is one of Lord Hart's courting gifts, it should be returned to him." Eggsy reaches into his pocket and pulls out the medallion. "And this, too."

Mistress Olwyn makes no move to take the items from Eggsy, so Eggsy puts them on the table. He holds out his wrist. "Can you please take this off? I can't seem to manage the clasp."

"Oh, no. I will _not_ remove your courting jewels, Miss Unwin. It's neither right nor proper." Mistress Olwyn seems to recover some of her poise. "If you wish to break off with Lord Hart, you must do so to his face. It is not my task to convey your news to him." Her voice and her posture convey a sternness that Eggsy isn't accustomed to hearing from her.

The last thing Eggsy wants to do is see Lord Hart. He's too afraid he'll break down, that his resolve to do the right thing, the unselfish thing, will shatter. That he'll trap Lord Hart in a bad decision made for good reasons.

"When will Master Merlin be back?"

Mistress Olwyn shakes her head. "I don't know, but you're not putting this on him. Don't you think, after everything that Lord Hart's done for you, he deserves to hear your rejection in person? Not through some cold letter?" She gestures at the stack of envelopes in Eggsy's hand. 

"You don't understand." Eggsy can't bear the thought of seeing Lord Hart again, the kindness, the bumbling gestures of affection that Eggsy had so foolishly misunderstood.

"It's not my place to understand your sudden madness. My place is to care for this house and for you, as commanded by Lord Hart. I don't know why you feel you need to leave, but I do know that Lord Hart will be angry at me if I let you go. I'll lose my livelihood, he'll turn me out without reference for this."

"I think you're exaggerating, Mistress. Lord Hart is a kind and generous man. He did not send you here to be my gaoler. I will leave of my own free will, and this - " Eggsy holds out the letter, "explains everything." 

"No, it can't." The housekeeper looks like she's about to cry. "Please, Miss Unwin, please don't just leave. You can't know what it's like out in the world for a gently bred Omega. You could be dead by nightfall, or worse."

Eggsy correct her. "But you see, I'm not a gently-bred Omega. I grew up dodging my stepda's fists and roaming hands. He used to point out the whores on the wharves in Portsmouth, telling me that's where I'd end up. I know just what the world is like."

The housekeeper is unmoved. "Then state your case to Lord Hart. If you're set on leaving, he won't keep you prisoner, but he has the right hear why you're going."

Eggsy sees the futility in arguing. And perhaps it would be best to see Lord Hart one last time. To thank him for everything, have a few last memories that will have to last for the rest of his life, however long that may be.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It's the day before the duel and Harry is finding it difficult not to call for his horse and head over to the house in Richmond to see Eggsy. He knows that Morton had plans to call on Eggsy this morning; now that Eggsy's heat is over, she ostensibly wants to make sure he's all right, but more likely to apologize for what had happened with the doctor. Merlin has assured him that he'll play duenna and make certain that nothing untoward happened.

The thought of Eggsy and Morton in private speech makes Harry most unhappy, but he doesn't feel he has the right to intervene. He may be formally courting Eggsy, but Eggsy is an adult and if he wishes to see Lord Morton, Harry should not stop him from doing so.

A nasty interior voice comments, _"unlike Morton, who has completely messed everything up for you."_ Harry sighs and shuts that line of thought down. That's not really fair. Morton had just been trying to protect Eggsy, it's a pity that she'd burst in at such a delicate moment.

Harry doesn't know if it's the aborted courting or the tension from the impending duel, but anxiety is making his skin crawl. It's nothing like the nervousness he'd feel the night before a mission or a battle; years of war had made him accustomed to that. This unease is unlike than anything he'd experienced, even while waiting for his agents to return safe after Waterloo, and then waiting even longer to get news of the losses.

He's certain that something's gone wrong. Perhaps Morton – who is so desperately in need of a bride – has convinced Eggsy that she cares for him. Perhaps Eggsy is convinced that Morton would make a better mate. She is, after all, so much younger. 

The memory of Eggsy's kiss, so sweet and perfect, makes Harry's lips tingle and calms the anxiety. And more than that, it arouses him – an unexpected delight. He's a man closer to sixty than fifty and sexual arousal is rarely spontaneous these days. 

Maybe he should go see Eggsy, tell him not to worry, that everything will be fine. He won't tell his intended that he'd changed his will, and that just in case everything isn't fine, that Morton forgets that she didn't challenge him to a duel to the death, Eggsy will inherit almost everything. He'll be safe and happy (all right, hopefully not _that_ happy) and Harry can pass out of this life knowing he's done right by his Omega.

Harry makes a decision. He's going to go see Eggsy right now; Mistress Olwyn can act as a chaperone since Merlin will be running a few errands after overseeing Morton and Eggsy. Primarily, Merlin is heading to the gunsmith with a set dueling pistols that had belonged – like so many things in Harry's life – to Perran Hart. They have been kept clean, but it's been more than sixty years since they'd been fired. As the provider of the weapons, having an expert make certain that both guns are identical and in working order is both gentlemanly and pragmatic.

With Merlin out and about, and Mistress Olwyn a decidedly less forceful personality, Harry plans on asking Eggsy to walk alone with him in the garden. He wants just a few minutes in his intended's company, to breathe his scent and find some calmness. And perhaps, they could take advantage of the privacy and share a kiss – a favor from Eggsy before the duel.

As Harry leaves his library to change into clothing more appropriate for a visit with his intended, he's startled by the sound of raised voices coming from the foyer. It sounds like Mistress Olwyn and Eggsy.

_"No, I'll just leave this with you."_ Eggsy sounds angry. 

Mistress Olwyn replies, her tone sharp. _"You are not leaving until you see Lord Hart. I'll tie you up if I have to."_ Lucius says something, but his words are indistinct.

Something is horribly wrong – Eggsy shouldn't be here, and worse, he shouldn't be trying to leave. Harry rushes down the stairs to confront his servants and to make sure that Eggsy is unharmed. He's on the second landing when he's hit by the scent of an Omega in distress and is nearly crippled by it.

"Eggsy!" Harry manages to get to his Omega, and disregarding all rules of propriety, he cups his hands around Eggsy's face and holds him close. Or tries to. Eggsy pulls away and tries to hide behind Lucius.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

Eggsy looks at him with tear-bright eyes and shakes his head.

Aching and terrified for Eggsy, Harry turns to Mistress Olwyn. "What is going on? Why have you brought Miss Unwin here? Why does he look like he's been crying?" _Why does his scent reek of despair?_

The housekeeper seems almost as sick and distressed as Eggsy, but her voice is calm when she delivers her devastating news. "Miss Unwin has decided that he does not wish to continue with your courtship. He'd asked that I return your courting gifts to him. He is planning on leaving."

Harry looks at Eggsy. "Is this true?"

Before Eggsy can answer, Mistress Olwyn grabs him and pulls him into the front parlor. "You need to talk to Lord Hart before running away." She gives Harry a stern look before shutting the door behind them.

Eggsy's scent in the warm, closed room is overwhelming; triggering Harry's Alpha instinct to protect and soothe. "Eggsy, darling, please tell me what's wrong."

Eggsy twists his hands together, looking absolutely miserable.

Harry hadn't wanted to bring it up, but he has to. "I know you asked him not to say anything, but Merlin told me what happened with the doctor. Is this why you want to leave?" Harry is terrified that he'll say the wrong thing. "I am so sorry you were hurt. I wish I could change what happened, but please believe that there is nothing that could change my mind about you, about how I feel."

"No." Eggsy shakes his head. "It happened, nothing you could do about it. But that's not why I need to go." Eggsy reaches into his coat – the badly worn one that he'd travelled in from Morton Crescent – and takes out a letter. "Here – this explains everything."

Harry would prefer to hear Eggsy's reasons from his own lips, but Eggsy looks like he's barely able to string two words together. So he takes the letter and gestures for Eggsy to sit, then goes over to the window to read. The letter is too brief, but all the same, Harry feels as if he's been shot in the face. 

"You really believe that I've only been acting out of gratitude to your sire? That everything I've done for you has been to repay him."

"Yeah." Eggsy whispers and refuses to look at Harry.

"But why would you think that?" Harry goes to Eggsy, kneels down in front of him. "Why would you think that this is all an exercise in gratitude, Eggsy?"

"Because – " Eggsy looks at him with such despair that Harry's wounded to his soul. "Because that's what it has to be, right? You're the Marquess Cardoc, a peer of the realm, a war hero. You can't want to mate with me, I'm little more than a wharf rat. I got lucky at Morton Crescent, but luck won't disguise the stench. I'll shame you, shame your name. Your friends will turn their back on you, you'll be shunned. I couldn't bear that. I can't allow that."

Eggsy's voice never rises above a whisper, but each word rings with damnable conviction.

"You're a good Alpha and you deserve so much better than me."

Harry can't believe what he's hearing. This Eggsy is nothing at all like the brave, self-confident Omega that had pulled a knife on him the first time they'd met. "Darling, please – I think you've got it backwards. I'm the one who doesn't deserve _you._ "

Eggsy keeps shaking his head. "You don't have to pretend, my lord. Not anymore." Eggsy holds out his wrist. "If you would take this off, I'll be gone, out of your hair."

The atavistic Alpha beast inside him rejects this. "No." Harry will _not_ let his Eggsy go. Not now, not ever.

"What do you mean? I'm releasing you from your obligation. You got me away from Lord Chester, you've more than fulfilled any debt you think you owe my sire."

"I didn't do any of this out of obligation, Eggsy. I don't know why you'd ever believe that."

Eggsy pulls out another letter, and Harry recognizes the stationary as his own. "You said so yourself. In your letter to me."

Harry doesn't recall his exact words, so he takes it and tries to find where he conflated his desire for Eggsy with some kind of debt to Lee Unwin. He had mentioned Lee's untimely sacrifice and the belated effort by Kingsman to recognize it, but there's no words, neither express or implied, that should lead Eggsy to believe so strongly that their courtship has been motivated by an unpaid debt.

"Dearest, you are mistaken. I am grateful for your sire's bravery, but my interest is motivated by …" Harry wants to say _desire_ , but that would be ungentlemanly. "Your own sweet person."

Eggsy keeps shaking his head, negating Harry's words. "No. That's not right. Why would you want to take someone like me as a mate?"

"Someone like you?"

"Yeah, like me. Lowborn, barely educated, like I said - little more than a Portsmouth wharf rat."

"No Eggsy, that's not who you are. Not in my eyes." Harry feels as if one wrong word will send Eggsy running out into the night, but he doesn't know what to say that will make Eggsy see that his courtship is honest. He has to try, though. He takes Eggsy's hands, holding them gentle. "I see a young Omega, full of potential. An Omega who's intelligent, who's loyal - "

At that last word, Eggsy pulls his hands free and scrambles away, climbing over the back of the settee to escape Harry.

"Darling, what did I say?"

"I'm not loyal. I'm a terrible, terrible person."

"No, Eggsy - you are most certainly not! What that horrible doctor did to you is not your fault - please believe me."

"Not about the doctor - that doesn't matter. Doesn't matter if I'm spoiled goods if I'm already worthless." Eggsy has his arms wrapped around himself.

Harry tries to soothe Eggsy with the truth. "You're not spoiled goods and you are not worthless." This feels uncomfortably close to the conversation he'd had with Merlin the night before the Lancelot trials. Why does everyone who matters to him suddenly feel worthless? "You are the most valuable person in my life, I will spend the rest of eternity proving that to you, if you'll let me." 

For a brief second, there's hope in Eggsy's eyes, but it's quickly dimmed. Harry feels Eggsy's distress, his despair, like it's a physical thing. "Please, tell me what happened to make you feel like this."

"Nothing happened. Nothing but discovering the truth."

"The truth? Whose truth? Did Lord Morton say anything to you? What lies has she spread?" Harry is rethinking his plans to delope. Roxanne Morton might be Percival's child, but if she's sent Eggsy into this terrible state, then she deserves a bullet between the eyes.

"No lies. Just the truth. That no Alpha will want to mate with a silly Omega." Eggsy looks at his hands. "And I am silly, to think that you'd want to take me as your mate, as if this is some kind of novel."

Harry feels like there's so much more to that conversation with Morton. "Would you prefer that Lord Morton be your mate?"

Eggsy laughs, but it's a terrible, sad sound. "Lord Morton wants nothing to do with me. She hates me. I'm ungrateful and selfish and silly."

"Good god, Eggsy - why would she say those things to you?"

"Because I was angry at her. For - you know…" Eggsy turns bright red and ducks his head.

"For bursting into my home uninvited? For her ungentlemanly assault on me? For putting you in harm's way?"

"No, for interrupting - " The scent of shame rises out of Eggsy. "The kiss. I kissed you and she saw. I was so angry that she'd interrupted, but she'd risked so much to save me and I didn't even thank her. Did you know that Lord Chester tried to have her committed? He could have her arrested for taking her own horse, her own clothing, from her own estate without his permission. And I acted as if I was better than her, that none of that mattered because I thought we - " Eggsy stops and backs himself into the corner, "We were going to be married. But then she reminded me just how silly that is. How stupid and foolish and selfish I am."

Harry's not so certain that Morton used those words. She might have been harsh with Eggsy and Harry will - after the duel - have his own words with her. But given how Eggsy had misinterpreted his own words, thinking that Harry's been acting from misplaced obligation and gratitude, it's quite possible that this is the same thing. Harry wishes for Merlin, who had chaperoned their conversation. He can't imagine that if Morton had been as brutal as Eggsy's saying, Merlin wouldn't have intervened, and he certainly would have come to him to tell him what had transpired.

Harry approaches Eggsy slowly, as if Eggsy's a frightened horse; to his relief, Eggsy's lets Harry take his hand and lead him back to the settee. He feels as if he's caught in a vortex, that no matter what he says to soothe Eggsy, Eggsy will use it to cut at himself. But maybe he can get through in another way. 

" _I_ don't think you are stupid or foolish or selfish to believe I want you as my bride, my mate." Eggsy is about to contradict Harry, but Harry cuts him off. "But you are foolish to think that I am pure and perfect and stainless and that you'll shame me and destroy my name when we marry."

"I will. I'll take everything you value and turn it to muck."

"You assume that I value my title, that being Marquess Cardoc is important to me."

"Isn't it?"

"Not really, Eggsy. But that's not what I'm trying to say." Harry pushes forward. "I'm not a good man – in fact, I'm a very bad man."

"Not according to Merlin. He says he's never seen you do behave in any manner less than honorably, that you're a good man."

Harry has to laugh. "Merlin talks a good game. He's been my conscience for more years than I care to admit. He knows you will be good for me, so whatever he told you was a clever attempt to make me seem better than I truly am."

Eggsy seems skeptical, which is better than despair. "I don't believe it."

"Believe it, my dearest." Harry sighs and prepares to come clean. "You might think I spend my time in Society, going from ball to ball, dancing and flirting and doing all the things that an Alpha of high birth does in London. But that is rarely the case. Most evenings are spent overseeing a very particular gaming hell called The Black Hart."

"Roxy – Lord Morton – mentioned something about that." Eggsy gives Harry a curious look. "She said something about a club. Something about Charlie King and some gaming debts."

"Did she tell you that she thinks that Chester King sold you to me in exchange for Charlie's debts?" 

Eggsy nods. "But I didn't believe her."

"Believe her."

"You were doing it to protect me."

"Yes I did. But you see, what I did wasn't anywhere as clean cut as Lord Morton makes it out to be."

"What do you mean?" Eggsy leans in just a little bit and Harry takes that as a win.

"When Chester bragged about his plans to give you to his son as a sexual convenience, I knew I had to stop him. And after working for Chester King, you have to know what kind of Alpha he is. If I'd given the least hint of a legitimate interest in you, he'd have locked you in a room with Charlie and his friends and they'd take turns with you until you died. So I had to make him think I was just as bad, just as corrupt as he is; that I'd be willing to buy you for my pleasure. Except that Chester King still thinks he's a gentleman and such commerce is beneath him."

Eggsy shrugs. "So, you used Charlie's debts to 'buy' me. And now your debt to my da is fulfilled. If anything, I owe _you_."

While it would be easy to use that as leverage, to tie Eggsy to him, it's not the foundation he wants to build their relationship on. So he ignores Eggsy's last comment and continues with his story. "Charlie King had some substantial gaming debts to money lenders in Cambridge. He owed a lot, but those vowels couldn't give me the leverage I needed without raising some flags. So I gave Charlie a membership at my club and a line of credit he had no way to repay."

"Did you cheat him?" Eggsy doesn't seem upset at the prospect.

"No. Charlie is a terrible card player and doesn't have the least understanding of the odds in games of chance. In three nights, Charlie lost almost five thousand pounds. When I presented the markers to Chester, he was eager to strike a deal. For you."

Eggsy doesn't move, doesn't say a word.

"So you see – I put all the pieces in play. I manipulated your employer. I set a young Alpha of good birth deliberately down the road to debt and ruin, just so I could arrange the right circumstances to kidnap you. I am not the good man you seem to think I am."

"Charlie King is a wanker of the first order. He's a disgusting excuse for a human being and whatever you did ain't nothing compared to what he's done on his own."

"Eggsy – " Harry's trying not to get frustrated and let it show. Eggsy's scent is driving him crazy – he needs to hold Eggsy, soothe Eggsy, shelter him and make Eggsy understand that nothing matters more than their life together.

"Please, my lord. Just let me go. I don't want you to regret your kindness."

Harry wants to weep. "Where will you go? Back to Morton Crescent?" _To Roxanne Morton, who can never love you the way I do?_

"No. There's nothing there for me anymore. As long as you'll make sure that my mum and sib get the money you put away on account of my da's heroism, they'll be fine."

"So, you'll just walk away? From me, from everything we could have?" Harry can't take comfort that Eggsy isn't tossing him over for Morton. Eggsy doesn't answer, and that's answer enough.

"What can I do to change your mind, to convince you that you're worthy of me? That no one else's opinion should matter?"

Eggsy's about to answer when someone knocks on the door, the sound as loud as gunshot on the battlefield.

Harry won't stand for any interruption – not again - and roars, "Go away!"

The knocking stops and Harry tries to take Eggsy's hands; if he does not touch his Omega, Harry thinks he's going to shatter. He holds them, even as Eggsy tries to pull away. "Please, Eggsy. Don't go, don't leave me."

"I have to, I have to go. You'll come to hate me. And I can't be so silly, so selfish."

"Eggsy, I lo – "

The knocking starts again, the fast and urgent patter interrupting Harry in the most important moment of his life. "Eggsy, please forgive me. I need to go murder my butler." Harry presses a kiss on the backs of Eggsy's hands and goes to open the door.

Yes, Lucius is the one knocking, and Mistress Olwyn is behind him, her eyes filled with worry. But Lucius and the housekeeper as not so gently pushed aside by an elderly Alpha. 

"Harry Hart. My god, you've gotten old!"

Harry stares, dumbfounded as Gwendolyn Spenser, the Duke of Kilderry, the first Alpha to bear the Kingsman title of Lancelot - and incidentally, his godsire - pushes her way into the parlor.

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you. You'll have to forgive my rudeness." Gwen - as Harry's has always thought of her - pulls off her gloves and drops them onto the nearest table.

Harry would throw the Alpha out and onto the street, except the Duke is probably close to eighty-five and has endured losses that Harry can't begin to imagine. But that doesn't mean he has to be polite and deferential to either her rank or her age or their relationship. "No, Gwen, actually I don't have to forgive you. You have just barged in during a very important conversation."

Gwen gives him a strange, indecipherable look and turns to Eggsy. "I understand that you are Harry's intended?"

Eggsy shrugs and bites his lip.

"Oh, you can do better than that, kitling. Are you or are you not planning on accepting an offer of honorable marriage from Harry Hart?"

Eggsy snaps, "I'm trying to get him to take off his courting bracelet." Eggsy holds out his wrist. "Would you please take it off of me?"

Thankfully Gwen waves it away. "Let me ask a slightly different question. Do you want to marry Harry Hart?" Gwen's voice is a little softer, less battlefield commander and more highly trained interrogator.

"I do, but - " Eggsy turns away and once again, Harry scents the rising despair.

"But you feel unworthy? That marrying Harry would be selfish, that it would hurt him too much? That you don't deserve such a wonderful Alpha as a mate?"

Eggsy looks over at Harry, squares his shoulder and nods. "Yeah. He's treating me like I'm some kind of prince, but I'm not."

Harry wants to know just how Gwen knows this, and if she's going to help Eggsy leave because she agrees with him, he's going to kill her.

But Gwen is full of surprises. She eases onto the settee, and reaches for Eggsy, pulling him down, next to her. "You feel terrible. That nothing will ever be right again, no?"

Eggsy repeats the same self-indictment. "I'm selfish and silly. I'm not fit to be Lord Hart's mate." Eggsy looks over at Harry. "Can you see how bad it'll be for Lord Hart if he mates with me? Marries me?"

Harry goes to Eggsy, kneeling on his other side. "I just want you to be happy, Eggsy. With me. Nothing else matters, especially not Society's opinion."

Gwen shakes her head, a minute gesture, and Harry backs off a bit. "Eggsy, that's your name?"

"It's what everyone calls me."

"May I call you that, too?" When Eggsy nods, Gwen offers her own name. No title, no patronym, just "Call me Gwen, like Harry does."

"I'm going to confess something, while I was waiting for Harry's butler to introduce me, Mistress Olwyn told me about you. She was so happy that his lordship here was finally taking a bride, but then it all came crashing down. You were very angry this morning, when you came out of your heat."

Eggsy blushes at the mention of the intimate function, but nods. 

"And then your anger turned inward, you felt unworthy, that you should just go away and never show your face again. You need to disappear."

Eggsy nods, and for the first time, tears spill down his cheeks.

Harry goes to give Eggsy a handkerchief, but Gwen is faster, taking out her own handkerchief and wiping Eggsy's tears away. "Will you believe me if I tell you that you really don't feel like that. That in a few days, all of this will be a fading memory and the you'll be truly lost?"

Eggsy wipes his face and asks, "How do you know that?" 

Harry's eager to hear the answer, too. The Duke of Kilderry is many things, but she's not a medical doctor.

Gwen sighs. "I must apologize for being indelicate, but it's not a thing that people will ever talk about. And that's a terrible shame."

Harry's losing patience. "What are you trying to say, Gwen?"

And Gwen finally cuts to the chase. "Sometimes, when a mated Omega has an unconsummated heat or a heat that isn't fertile, they are thrown into a terrible depression. The quacks will whisper about it and sometimes cruel Alphas will use it to have their unwanted Omegas committed. The problem is common in noble households, but not unheard of in the yeoman class, too. It usually afflicts pure-blood Omegas, or ones who haven't had a Beta in the family line for a few generations. It only seems as if it has to do with rank - since noble families tend to mate Alpha to Omega, rather than Alpha to Beta."

"How could you possibly know this?" Harry isn't so much doubting Gwen's information - he certainly has known enough Alphas who've complained about their weepy Omegas - but at the same time, it seems incredible.

"My mate, Alastair, suffered terribly from it. Even before we were married."

Eggsy frowns, confused. "You jumped the gun and mated before your vows? Harry and I - we've only kissed. So this can't be what's going on."

"No, kitling. Alastair and I were much like you and Harry. A whirlwind meeting, a fast courtship and engagement. Alastair's heats were always a little irregular and instead of cooperating with the timing of our wedding, my bride went into heat two weeks before the ceremony. While we'd done little more than kiss a handful of times, Alastair had a horrific episode - too much like yours - where he wanted to break it off, insisting that he was little more than some Irish peasant who couldn't bring shame on such a noble house as mine."

Gwen looks from Eggsy to Harry. "This is why I had left Perran's venture so young. Even though I'd loved being Lancelot. I had to make a decision - what was more important, being a spy or having my wife happy and healthy. I chose the latter, and I've never regretted it. I've had many other regrets in my life, but making certain that Alastair had been happy and healthy was never one of them.

Harry has to ask. "What did you regret?" 

"Not making sure that James was just as happy and healthy. Not insisting that Percival do what's right by his Omega instead of doing what was needed to keep that fat German bastard on his throne."

Eggsy pipes up, "James? Percival? You knew the Morton _Arlodh_ and _Arlodes_?" 

Harry realizes it's way past time to make the formal introductions. "Eggsy, please allow me to introduce Gwendolyn Spenser, Duke of Kilderry and James Spenser Morton's sire." But before Harry can complete the courtesies and give Gwen Eggsy's name, Eggsy jumps off the settee. He doesn't retreat, though. Eggsy stands in front of Gwen fists clenched, his expression on of blazing anger.

"You're the old witch who's let Chester King ruin Lord Roxy's life!"

Gwen is rattled, and for the first time in this extraordinary meeting, she looks her age. "You know my grandcub?"

"Yeah, I live - used to live - at Morton Crescent. Lord Roxy plucked me out of the stables, I was supposed to be her secretary. But Old Stinkbottom - " Eggsy grimaces as he seems to remember just who he's talking to, "Lord Chester co-opted me, and I'd been his junior secretary, until he decided to give me to his son as a bedmate."

Harry's infinitely grateful that Eggsy hadn't said that Chester had sold him to Harry - that's a little too difficult to explain without reopening Eggsy's wounds.

Gwen nods. "That does sound like Chester."

And Eggsy, bless him, doesn't back down. "If you know just how bad Lord Chester is, then why didn't you step in? Why did you abandon Lord Roxy like you did?"

"I had reasons, youngling. Reasons that seemed good at the time." 

"There's never a good reason to abandon your family. Lord Roxy needs you. She needs what real family she has left." Eggsy looks like he'd like to do some real damage to Gwen.

Harry tries not to smile at Eggsy's outrage. This is the Omega he'd fallen head over heels for at the first meeting. Loyal, intelligent, with strong opinions he's not afraid to express.

Gwen sighs. "Then I'll have to visit Morton Crescent. Put the fear of God and Kilderry into Old Stinkbottom. Chester has always been a self-interested coward, and it won't take much effort to shut him down. It's past time that I should be checking on my grandcub, make sure she's all right."

"You don't need to go to Cornwall to do that, Gwen. Roxanne's in London." Harry knows how deeply Gwen has grieved, but he's never understood how her grief could twist her iron-strong sense of family so badly that she'd abandoned James' child to Chester's less than merciful care. "Maybe you should pay her a visit."

"She's in Town for the season?" Gwen looks both shocked and hopeful.

"No, she came looking for me." Eggsy says, with much less bravado. "My mum never got my letters after Lord Chester sent me to Cambridge, so she told Lord Roxy. And Lord Roxy had been worried enough to try to find me. That's the type of person she is, running away to find a lowly dependent."

Gwen gives Eggsy an arch look. "And yet, here you are, with a courting bracelet on your wrist and the Marquess Cardoc intent on making you his bride. That is a story I would love to hear."

Harry steps in before Eggsy can speak. "And you will, Gwen, in time. But I'm curious, what brings you to London? Last I heard, you'd exiled yourself in Kent."

"You, _Arthur_ , have to ask why I'm here? Four days ago, one of your messengers delivered the news that a new Kingsman was to be put through the trials. A new Lancelot, of all things. I - " Gwen shakes her head, looking both angry and deeply saddened. "Without any prior word, I am told that the Lancelot title was to pass out of the Spenser name. I'd thought …" Gwen pauses. "I thought that Katherine's cub would be the next Lancelot. I thought you had been holding the position for him."

Harry doesn't want to say that he'd never once thought about offering Katherine Spenser's cub a shot at the Lancelot position, but he can understand Gwen's thinking. She'd been the first Lancelot, and when Harry'd re-formed Kingsman, one of the first Alphas he'd approached had been Gwen's eldest child, Katherine, who had been killed at Bussaco in '10. She'd been captured by French forces, tortured, and then shot as a spy.

Gwen had never spoken a harsh word to Harry about Katherine's death, she'd respected him as Perran's heir and as Arthur in his own right, but she'd kept her distance since Harry had personally delivered the news. If nominating Katherine's child as the next Lancelot could have brought Gwen some happiness, he would have done so. However, it's not too late to offer her a bit of joy. "Your other grandchild was the candidate."

"Roxanne? How?"

"She might be a Morton by name, but she has the Spenser fire in her belly. She came here, looking for Eggsy, and found us in a rather compromising situation. Rather than ask questions, she decked me with a rather excellent right hook and slapped my face. But when I refused to duel with a minor, Tristan and Bedivere proposed her for Kingsman, for the Lancelot position. I couldn't object and she passed her trials splendidly. And so, it's pistols at dawn tomorrow."

"You're not going to kill her, I hope." Gwen looks only slightly worried.

"Not even going to wing her. I hope she'll over the same courtesy."

Eggsy makes a terrified noise and Harry reaches out to soothe him. "It'll be fine. I'm certain Lord Morton will know what to do." He's not sure that Morton won't shoot at him, but he's _mostly_ confident the cub won't go for a kill shot.

"I'll have a word or two with Roxanne. Everyone will walk away tomorrow." Gwen then looks at Eggsy. "I like you, kitling. You'll be good for both Harry and for Arthur. Do you understand what I mean?"

"No, not really." Eggsy bites his lip and looks puzzled.

Gwen sighs. "I've known Harry Hart since he was a squalling babe - I'm his god-sire. Made some pretty promises in the chapel at Tintagel, in case he'd been orphaned and Perran had passed on. Promised to help raise him as an Alpha and a gentleman, to give him social consequence when it came time for him to look for a bride." She looks over at Harry and snorts in a most unaristocratic way. "Look how that turned out. He's Perran reincarnated, kidnapping his bride like a pirate."

Harry rolls his eyes and Eggsy actually smiles.

"What I'm saying is that you give Harry a sense of purpose, a reason to be a better Alpha. And in time, you'll help Arthur lead Kingsman into a new generation. You'll be his wise counsel - "

"But that's Merlin's role."

Harry interrupts. "Merlin's my good right hand, he advises but rarely contradicts me. As my bride, you'll have equal say in Kingsman - if that's something you want." 

Eggsy doesn't answer, but he doesn't say anything about leaving, either.

Gwen rises, signaling the end of this rather extraordinary visit. "Kitling, I can offer you a bit of advice on how to deal with what you're feeling, although I don't know if you'll want to take it. And it all depends if Harry can keep it in his pants."

"Gwen?" Harry is not _quite_ outraged and her crudity.

"When Alastair would have these episodes, we'd spend the night together, just wrapped in each other's arms. Just sleeping together, not _sleeping together_." 

"Like cuddling for warmth?" Eggsy sounds skeptical.

"Exactly, kitling. You two are mates, even if you haven't mated yet. You need each other, emotionally and physically. I'd bet all my estates in Ireland that Harry hadn't been feeling well today. That everything seemed off-kilter and wrong."

"I wouldn't have taken that bet, if just because I've seen your Irish estates." Harry jokes, and then admits, "You're right, though. All morning I've felt off - that I needed to see Eggsy, no matter what."

"I honestly think that you're feeling the mate bond between and Alphas and his true Omega."

"Sounds like something out of a novel." Eggsy echoes Harry's thoughts.

Gwen counters, "And don't novels have some basis in reality? I know I'd always been able to sense when Alastair hadn't been well."

Harry feels like he'd be taking advantage of Eggsy; he knows he'd be ruining his name and reputation by sharing a bed, no matter how platonically. But is it means that they can fix what's gone wrong, Harry's willing to take the chance. It's not like it would be a hardship to spend the night with Eggsy. Hopefully the first of many nights.

"I need to go find my grandcub." Gwen brushes away an invisible fleck of link on her coat. "Do you where she's staying?"

Harry gives Gwen the name of Morton's preferred lodging. "I'm not sure of the address, but I'm certain that Merlin knows. I'll have a footman bring it to you as soon as Merlin returns."

"Thank you, Harry. I'm not sure of how Roxanne will welcome me, but it way past time that we talked."

Eggsy asks, "Can you give something to her?" 

"It depends, kitling."

Eggsy pulls another letter from his jacket. "It's an apology for my bad manners this morning. Words that need to be said in case one of us is not around to say them."

Gwen takes the envelope. "Then I will be sure to give this to her."

"And maybe you should give Lord Roxy your apology, too. For abandoning her when she needed you the most."

Harry thinks he couldn't love Eggsy any more than he does right now, at this moment. His brave Omega - if he only knows what kind of lion he has facing down."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Of all the people Merlin expects to see in Harry's foyer, Gwen Spenser, the Duke of Kilderry would probably be at the bottom of every list. Except that she is in Harry's foyer, pulling her gloves on. Even at eighty-five, the Duke is larger than life, towering over both Lucius and Mistress Olwyn, who, herself, shouldn't be here.

That question on the housekeeper's present here will have to wait until after he deals with Kilderry, who is not a person that Merlin can ignore. He gives the Duke his best – and rather rusty – courtly bow, murmuring, "Your Grace."

"Merlin, unlike Arthur, you haven't aged a day."

"Thank ye, Yer Grace." Merlin has always felt somewhat intimidated by Kilderry; he's rarely put out by anyone – Alpha, Beta or Omega, but Gwendolyn Spenser somehow manages to make him feel like the grubby crofter's lad he'd once been. 

"Merlin, we've known each other for more years than I care to count and each time we meet, what do I tell you?"

"To call ye 'Gwen' like Harry does."

"So?"

"So, it's good to see ye, Gwen. It's been a long time." Merlin realizes that the last time he'd seen Kilderry had been when he'd gone her estate in Kent to pay his respects after the war had ended – two years after James had died and seven years after Katherine. She'd been gracious, but had given him a scant five minutes, making it clear that she'd already given too much to Kingsman.

He could understand that.

"Yes, it has been. I wasn't at my best when you came to see me, and for that I apologize."

"Please, Gwen, apologies aren't necessary. I understand."

"Perhaps if everyone hadn't been quite so _understanding_ , we wouldn't be in this pickle."

"Pickle?"

"It seems that my grandcub, Roxanne, has challenged my godson, Harry, to a duel over Harry's kidnapping of his intended bride, who happens to be Roxanne's untrustworthy trustee's junior secretary. Perhaps if I'd been more of a human being and less of a self-centered bitch, I'd have paid attention to the goings-on at Morton Crescent and raised my grandchild properly."

Merlin blinks. "I'd forgotten that James was your child – that Lord Morton is your family." He's more than a bit outraged on Morton's behalf. In the short bursts of time he'd spent with Morton, he's gotten the sense that she feels herself lacking, that she'd been abandoned by her family because she's somehow unworthy. "And forgive me for agreeing with ye, but yes, yer willful disregard of yer family has had disastrous repercussions."

Gwen laughs bitterly. "Nothing to forgive, Merlin. You are absolutely correct."

Merlin asks, "What brings ye out of yer exile?"

"The message Arthur sent about the Lancelot trials."

"Ye'r a few days too late – but I'm guessing that Harry told ye that yer grandchild is the new Lancelot. Keeping it within the family."

"And yet, I came to London to excoriate Arthur about that – I'd hoped that the honor would be reserved for Katherine's cub."

And this is another thing that Merlin has forgotten, that the last Lancelot, Gwen's eldest child, Katherine, had been mated and borne a cub. And something else occurs to him - irony of ironies - Lee Unwin, Eggsy's sire, would have been Lancelot if he hadn't been so heroic just hours before his investment. He doesn't mention that to Gwen, figuring it's better to let the old Alpha have her conceits.

"I need to talk with my grandchild. Harry tells me you know where she's residing."

"Yes, I do." Merlin gives Gwen the address of Mistress Jeanne's boarding house. "But she's probably not there right now. I believe she's out gallivanting for a bit. Tristan and Bedivere have taken her under their wing."

"Then I'll wait for her. It's been a long day and I wouldn't mind putting my feet up for a while."

"I bid you good day, Your Grace." Merlin bows again, eager to see Harry and let him know that everything is settled for tomorrow morning.

Except Gwen isn't letting him go. "Not so fast. We have a few things to discuss."

They're still standing in the foyer, with Lucius and Olwyn not even trying to pretend that they're not eavesdropping.

"Shall we go into the parlor." Merlin gestures for Gwen to follow him.

"Harry and Eggsy are in there. And that's what we need to discuss."

Merlin looks over at Lucius and Olwyn, and with a sharp tilt of his head, he tells them to make themselves scare. Although their privacy isn't assured, it's better than nothing.

"What's going on? Why is Eggsy here?"

Gwen explains that Eggsy's been experiencing some strange Omega distress and the only remedy is for him to spend the night with Harry. _Platonically_. 

If Gwen expects Merlin to protest at the sleeping arrangements, she's bound for disappointment; it's not his place to object. But he does comment, "So all my hard work playing dragon and protecting Eggsy's reputation has been for naught."

Gwen smiles and pats his cheek. "No, small hawk, protecting those who can't protect themselves is never for naught." Gwen turns on her heel and heads for the door, tapping her foot until Lucius returns from wherever he'd been listening. When the front door shuts, Mistress Olwyn reappears, wringing her hands.

"Just so you know, Master Merlin, I was the one who told Her Grace what was going on. I remember how Duchess Alastair had suffered when Her Grace was gone. And how Lady James had hurt, too. I thought it was best to let Lord Hart talk to Miss Unwin before he did something foolish and run off."

Of course Olwyn would say something to Gwen; she'd been Her Grace's London housekeeper for decades, staying on for years after Gwen had closed the house on Grosvenor Square. Merlin had hired her after a chance encounter in St. James Square, where she'd bent his ear about her lonely and unfulfilling life, supervising a skeleton staff to watch over a mansion filled with ghosts.

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling like nothing will ever be normal again. "Ye did the right thing, Mistress Olwyn, especially if the kitling was hurting and wanted to leave."

"Thank you, sir. But what shall I do now?"

"Would ye mind returning to Richmond and bringing back some of Eggsy's new clothes? He'll be spending the night here and likely accompanying me and Lord Hart to his engagement in the morning."

The housekeeper smiles and promises to do better, to bring the young Omega maid that had been waiting on Eggsy since she'd been transferred to the Richmond household. "The young Mistress should have someone to tend to her needs in the morning."

"Excellent thinking." 

As the housekeeper bustles off, Merlin is reminded of an unpleasant duty. 

"Lucius?"

"Yes, sir?"

"The between-stairs maid, Della. I believe that Mistress Olwyn had communicated to ye about her."

"Yes, and she has been dismissed without reference. Cook had been most upset and has made noises about leaving."

"Let him. I believe Mistress Olwyn has a replacement in the young cook sent over to Richmond."

"Very well, sir. I will let cook know that if he wishes to leave, he may do so at any time, but not to expect references from this household. And I will also tell him that if the quality of the food diminishes or if there are any discrepancies in the kitchen accounts, he will be turned off immediately."

Merlin would have liked to have treated Della the way Morton had taken care of Cronin - the maid's crime had been as bad as the doctor's - but there seems something wrong about taking vengeance against a menial, no matter how stupid or cruel she might be.

That unpleasantness taken care of, Merlin goes to the parlor and pauses before knocking. For propriety's sake, Harry should not be behind closed doors with Eggsy. But if Kilderry's assertions are correct and Mistress Olwyn had been speaking the truth about Eggsy wanting to run off for no good reason, then perhaps some quiet kindness, without his awkward presence, is necessary.

Harry Hart is an Alpha of great dichotomy. He might relish his role as a courting peacock, showing off for Eggsy, laying all manner of riches at the kitling's feet, but he's also an Alpha of infinite kindness - witness the care and loving concern for Merlin the other night, when he'd reached the end of his rope. If Harry's offering that kind of comfort to Eggsy now, Merlin's loathe to disturb them.

Unsure in a way he hasn't been since the early days of his friendship with Harry, Merlin knocks on the parlor door and waits. He's about to walk away when the door opens. It's Harry, looking far too subdued.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed ye."

"It's all right. Have you taken care of everything?"

"Aye. Manton himself checked the pistols and signed off on them. Doctor Adams will attend tomorrow, just in case. Tristan and Bedivere are watching over Lancelot tonight. Nothing left to do except not kill each other tomorrow morning." Merlin debates about saying anything about Eggsy, but before he can mention Kilderry, Harry steals his thunder.

"I had a visitor just a little while ago. Of all people, Gwen paid a visit."

"Yes, I know. I ran into Kilderry as she was leaving. She told me what's going on with ye and the kitling."

Harry, rather unbelievably, blushes. "Eggsy will be spending the night with me. For his health - and mine."

If anyone else had said that, Merlin might have made a crude joke. He keeps his tongue - out of friendship and respect. He knows just how much Harry wants to marry Eggsy and if they choose - of their own free will - to anticipate their vows by a few weeks, who is he to chide them?

Harry nods, gratitude for everything unsaid in his eyes. "You didn't happen to give Gwen the address for Morton's lodgings?"

"Aye, I did. I do hope that our new Lancelot is as forthright with Kilderry as she's been with everyone else. That would be something to see." Merlin wonders if he should say anything about the rather brutal conversation between Eggsy and Morton this morning, but decides not to. Perhaps after the duel…

"Will you dine with us?"

"Do ye want me to?"

"Yes, I think we'd all enjoy a quiet and normal evening together. Hopefully the first of many."

"Then I'll see ye and the kitling in a wee bit."

"Looking forward to it." Harry smiles and closes the door.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Are you certain you want to do this, dearest?" Lord Hart's eyes are grave, his voice low and soothing as they walk down the corridor to his lordship's bedroom. "There are adjoining apartments that can be made ready for you if you'd prefer."

Eggsy isn't sure about anything. He knows, intellectually, that his behavior today had not been normal, but those horrible thoughts and feelings of unworthiness are still creeping around the edges of his mind, and the least little thing could give them voice. "I think that if Her Grace believes that doing this will help, then we should take her advice." Eggsy can't quite bring himself to say "sleeping together", and he feels himself blushing at the very thought of it.

"Very well, then." Lord Hart clears his throat and opens the door to his bedroom suite. It is - as befitting a noble of high rank and great wealth - large and beautifully appointed. 

Eggsy's surprised to see the young maid who'd waited on him at Richmond standing by the fireplace, which is crackling merrily. She curtseys to them.

"I've had a bath drawn for you, if you'd like." 

Lord Hart sounds so uncertain that Eggsy wants to hug _him_ and say that everything will be all right. Instead, he smiles and nods. "That would be nice."

The maid leads him into a separate bathing chamber that is an utter marvel. There's a separate fireplace, lit with glowing coals, rugs scattered over a polished marble floor, and best of all, an enormous copper tub, already filled with steaming, scented water.

The maid helps him disrobe, and after Eggsy climbs in, she points out that the tub can be drained and refilled with the turn of a handle.

After the maid leaves, Eggsy relaxes, sinking up his chin. He'd bathed this morning, but it had been nothing like this. A quiet voice tells him that he should stop being so foolish - if he truly accepts Lord Hart's suit, he could have a bath like this every morning and every night. 

His fingertips have gone all pruney by the time Eggsy reluctantly climbs out of the bath. The maid has left a pile of linen towels for him and they are deliciously warm and soft. So are the linen pants he finds - part of the bounty that the tailor had sent over and Eggsy had deliberately left behind this morning. He's certain that tomorrow morning, he'll be dressed in new trousers, shoes and jacket and that his old clothes will be swept away.

The thought doesn't quite distress Eggsy. He still doesn't feel that he's worthy of becoming the next Marchioness Cardoc, but perhaps he is could be Lord Harry Hart's bride.

There's a mirror over a basin with a spout and handles, similar to the tub, and Eggsy takes a good look at himself. His hair is damp and darkened from the water, his face is flushed from the bath and the room's warmth, and perhaps from the thought of spending the night in Lord Harry's arms.

Eggsy shakes his head. He's back to thinking about the Alpha as "Lord Harry" instead of "Lord Hart". And perhaps by morning, he'll be calling him "Harry", just like Merlin does. The thought doesn't feel as shocking as it should be.

Eggsy stares at himself and wonders just what Lord Harry sees when he looks at him. He'd called Eggsy lovely and handsome, but Eggsy's not certain that isn't empty flattery. Omegas in the novels are lean and willowy, with languid and graceful limbs. Eggsy's nothing like that. He's sturdy, with strong arms and legs - which had been why he'd spent the first few months at Morton Crescent working in the stables. Even in the years afterwards, as Old Stinkbottom's secretary, he'd never lost the bulk or the strength. 

Perhaps Lord Harry truly likes his body with its thick thighs and muscular shoulders.

He lifts his chin, gives his reflection a hard stare and leaves the bathing chamber. The bedroom is cool and Eggsy heads for the massive bed in the middle of the room. The mattresses are piled so high that Eggsy needs the step stool to get onto it. He's just about to dive under the covers when Lord Harry enters through a door on the far side of the room.

He sees Eggsy immediately. "Are you all right?"

Eggsy nods, feels shy, but elated. "I'm fine. Really."

Always a gentleman, Lord Harry asks if he can get into his own bed. "May I join you?" 

Eggsy nods again, but finds his voice. "Yes, please."

Lord Harry takes off his robe and Eggsy knows he should look away, but he can't. Like Eggsy, Lord Harry is wearing just a pair of fine linen drawers. But on Lord Harry, they look so different, clinging damply to his long legs. As Lord Harry turns to drape his robe over a chair, the firelight makes the linen transparent and Eggsy can see the heavy outline of Lord Harry's cock.

Eggsy swallows and licks his lips, but he cannot look away, even when Lord Harry freezes and notices that Eggsy's staring.

But Lord Harry is a gentleman and doesn't call attention to Eggsy's immodest behavior. He climbs into the bed, beside Eggsy and the two of them spend a few awkward moments trying to arrange themselves in an uncompromising position.

"You know, the Duke said we needed to touch each other. Not lie in bed like a pair of Quakers." Eggsy isn't sure where he's gotten the courage to say that.

"I just didn't want you to feel overwhelmed." 

"Yeah, well - that's already happened. I just would rather feel better, you know?" Eggsy looks up at Lord Harry, who seems so worried. He snuggles down a bit and rests his head against his Alpha's chest. "And it's not like someone's going to burst in here and challenge you to a duel for compromising my virtue."

Lord Harry laughs. "You are really something special, Miss Unwin."

Eggsy can't help it, he giggles at the formality, when they are both nearly naked and sharing a bed. He feels happy and it's so strange after everything.

"We should get some sleep. We'll have to be up well before dawn." 

Lord Harry blows out the bedside candle although the light from the fireplace keeps the darkness at bay, the sense of intimacy increases a thousandfold. That gives Eggsy the courage to ask, "Are you scared about tomorrow?"

Lord Harry is quick to reply, "Only a fool wouldn't be concerned."

Eggsy's spent enough time with Lord Harry to realize that he rarely gives a direct answer when he's upset. "You are scared."

Eggsy feels Lord Harry's breath against his forehead when the Alpha sighs. "Of course I am. I may not know Lord Morton at all, but I knew her sire quite well. Percival was a dear friend and I hate being in a position where I might cause his child harm."

"You're not going to shoot her?" Eggsy asks in a small voice. 

"No. I might have cause for anger with her, but I will not harm a hair on Roxanne Morton's head."

"She won't shoot you." 

"You are rather sure of that."

"I told her this morning that you have never been anything less that a perfect gentleman, and the kiss that she'd interrupted had been my doing. So she has no reason to even challenge you." And just like that, the feelings of worthlessness and self-hatred come back. Eggsy sobs, "It's all my fault, all of this."

But then Lord Harry tightens his hold and Eggsy presses his face against warm, firm skin and breathes deep of the Alpha's scent. It is instantly calming.

"Can you sleep, darling?"

"I'm not sure. Can you?"

Lord Harry sighs. "I've never dueled before."

"No?" Eggsy's surprised at that.

"I was a spy, running a company of spies. We needed to be discreet. My grandsire, however, fought quite a few. I'm using his dueling pistols tomorrow."

"I guess he never lost."

"No, he didn't. But most of the time, he deloped and his opponent did the same."

"Deloped?" Eggsy doesn't know that word.

"Shoot into the air or deliberately wide of an opponent. An honorable way of saying that the dispute is settled without actually having to offer or accept an apology."

"That's what you're going to do tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, and I do hope Lord Morton will do the same." Lord Harry stirs and presses a soft kiss against Eggsy's temple. 

"You and your grandsire were right close?"

"Yes, I had been closer to Perran and Rhys than I'd ever been with my own sire and carrier, much to their despair."

Lord Harry seems to be in an extremely forthcoming mood, and that emboldens Eggsy even more. He asks, "Can you tell me the rest of the story about your grandsire and your grandcarrier? You were telling me about the medallion - "

Lord Harry nuzzles at Eggsy's hair; the gesture unties another knot under Eggsy's heart. "Which I am going to put back around your neck tomorrow morning."

Eggsy still isn't sure he deserves such a gift, but he doesn't feel up to protesting. "You said he found it on the moors."

"Yes, he'd been a wild, young Alpha, always looking out over the horizon, always wanting to explore the world. And yet, he had strong ties to the land. He had two older Alpha siblings and never thought be the _Arlodh_ eventually, even though his own sire hadn't put much stock into the ancient title. In my grandsire's youth, the Harts had been land rich, but cash poor, and you know just how hard it is to work the land in Cornwall."

Eggsy does, he'd watch Lord Roxy fret about poor harvest yields and rocky fields and terrible drainage for years.

"Perran's sire had been a foolish Alpha. She'd hated that any whiff of trade be associated with the family name and when Perran had been a child, his sire had sold the land leases for a number of productive mines to an English newcomer, an Alpha called John Marbury. Marbury's mate had died in childbirth, but the pub, Rhys, survived and had moved with his sire to Cornwall."

Lord Harry's voice rumbles through Eggsy. "And your grandsire and this English Omega became friends?"

"Yes. Thick as thieves, much to both of their sires' distress, and it only got worse as they got older. The Hart finances kept failing, one of Perran's siblings died, and Perran's sire needed to marry his cub off to money - but old money. Nothing associated with trade. Which meant that any alliance between Perran Hart, who still had no fortune to call his own, and Rhys Marbury would be utterly forbidden. And it didn't help that John Marbury despised Austell Hart and wanted a bigger title than baronet for his pup."

"Would you be insulted if I said that this sounds like the plot of one of my favorite novels?" Eggsy asks, shyly.

" _The Noble Pirate_ , written by Arden St. Edmonds?"

"Wait, what? You've read that one?" Eggsy can't quite believe that. The book Lord Roxy had lent to him had been written over fifty years ago.

Lord Harry laughs. "You might say that. Arden St. Edmonds had been my grandcarrier's pen name. Rhys wrote that book and several others. Perran had them printed and bound. How did you get a copy of it?"

"Lord Roxy lent it to me."

"Well, Perran and Rhys did know Alexander Morton, of course - he'd been the first Percival. It's very likely that they'd given a set of the books to him."

Eggsy now remembers Merlin telling him that Percival Morton's sire had a terrible sense of humor and had given his only child his own Kingsman code name. "I guess this is why you said you liked novels. Your grandcarrier wrote some good ones."

Harry chuckles. "Yes, although the first book was the best of the set. It's mostly autobiographical."

"So - the bit about Lord Jonathan kidnapping Miss Merivale from the church on her wedding day was something that happened?"

"Absolutely. Perran had left Tintagel to make his fortune, but not after giving Rhys the medallion as a promise to come back and marry him."

"And your grandcarrier's sire had told him that his beloved was dead, which was why he'd agreed to take another Alpha as a mate."

Lord Harry laughs again. "A blatant and foolish lie. My grandsire had been in London, receiving honors from the King. He nearly killed himself getting to Cornwall in time to stop the wedding."

"In the novel, Miss Merivale is about to say his vows at the altar when Lord Jonathan bursts into the church and drags him off. Is that what happened in truth?"

"No, it hadn't been quite that dramatic. Perran found Rhys alone in an antechamber reserved for the bride. He tossed a sack over his head and carried him out through the window. It wasn't until they were well away that he'd let Rhys know who had taken him. Rhys slapped him rather hard for that. Perran said his ears rang until they were halfway to Gretna Green."

"I still can't believe that your grandsire kidnapped your grandcarrier." Eggsy shouldn't find it so romantic, but he does.

"I hate to say it, but Perran and Rhys' story was the inspiration for my own actions in rescuing you. I just wish you could believe that I care deeply for you, that I'd do everything to keep you safe and happy and at my side."

Eggsy wishes he could see Lord Harry's face, read his expression. And they he realizes he doesn't need to. He can scent the truth in Lord Harry's words. He can also scent Lord Harry's pain and fear at the thought of Eggsy leaving. "I do. I do believe you."

"But you still doubt that we could be happy together?" Harry asks softly.

Eggsy has to be honest. "I think we could, but I don't want you to suffer for taking me as your mate."

"The only way I could suffer is if you leave me."

Hoping against all hope that Lord Harry doesn't come to regret this, Eggsy promises, "I won't."

"Thank you, darling. I hope that I will be able to prove to you that your trust in me is well earned."

Eggsy doesn't quite know what to say to that.

Lord Harry doesn't press for an answer or a greater commitment. "We really should try to sleep."

Eggsy snuggles against Lord Harry and finds comfort in his scent, in his strength, and most of all, in his presence. At the moment between wakefulness and sleep, Eggsy realizes that he could spend every night for the rest of his life just like this.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When Harry wakes, he's wrapped around a small furnace, but he's not the least bit uncomfortable. Eggsy is fast asleep and although there is no real light in the room, Harry can sense how much his Omega is at peace. Eggsy's scent is sweet and pure, lavender and sweet grass on a summer morning. Harry will do anything and everything to keep it that way.

There's a light tap on the door, and then it opens. Harry winces against the candlelight as it reflects on Merlin's bald pate. "What time is it?"

"It's a little after five. We have to be in Richmond by seven. Ye can't be late."

Harry eases out of bed, trying not to wake Eggsy, who rolls over and grabs a pillow and falls back to sleep.

In his dressing room, Merlin asks, "Ye going to let the kitling sleep? Go without him?"

"It's a thought. Spare him this unnecessary drama"

Merlin offers him some advice. "Don't. Eggsy deserves better than that. He won't forgive you for it so easily. Ye just spent the night trying to repair what had almost been broken. He's yer mate, treat him as such."

Harry nods. "You're right."

"I know I'm right. And ye wouldn't be able to sneak out without telling him. Kilderry will be here in about a half-hour. She sent a footman over with a note. Eggsy will ride with her to Richmond and they'll watch the duel from her carriage. She's taken a shine to him, it seems." 

Harry doesn't bother waking his valet, who is probably the least worked man on the entire staff, to help him dress. From the wardrobe, he pulls out a pair of fawn breeches and a black and silver waistcoat. There is something about a duel at dawn that calls for formality, although it'll be a black stock instead of a white cravat for his neckwear.

As he dresses, Harry muses, "Well, no one gainsays Gwen. And I suppose it wouldn't be a bad thing for Eggsy to have the Duke of Kilderry as his sponsor when he makes his bow at Court."

"Yer going to put Eggsy through that special hell?"

"It would probably be kinder if I didn't, but there will come a time when Eggsy will need allies outside of Kingsman."

"A day far into the future, ye maudlin peacock." Merlin gives him an ugly look.

"God willing." Harry tugs on his boots and lets Merlin help him on with his coat. He returns to the bedroom to find Eggsy sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "You weren't going to leave me behind, were you?" There is a slight accusation in Eggsy's voice.

"I had considered it, very briefly, but no. It wouldn't be fair." Harry offers his hand and helps Eggsy down from the bed. "I'll leave you to dress. Her grace will be arriving soon and we'll break our fast together. You'll ride with her to Richmond." 

The sky is barely lightening when Harry and Merlin see Gwen and Eggsy into Gwen's coach and they mount up. It doesn't take long at all to get from Mayfair to Richmond Forest in the pre-dawn hour. Doctor Adams is there, as are Tristan, Bedivere and Roxanne Morton. Harry can't quite think of her as Lancelot under these circumstances. 

Harry doesn't head over to the waiting group, but instead, he goes to Gwen's carriage. Eggsy looks far too solemn and far too beautiful for Harry's peace of mind. He picks up Eggsy's hand, which is resting on carriage window sill and forgoing all pretense of propriety, he kisses Eggsy's knuckles and promises. "It'll be fine."

"Her Grace tells me that I should give you a favor, like the Alphas and Omegas of old."

"Something to remind me of you when I ride into battle?" Harry is delighted by this.

Eggsy blushes and takes his hand back, but not as a sign of disfavor. He pulls at the ribbon binding his cuff and offers it to Harry. "Would you wear this for me?"

The ribbon, something Harry had specifically asked his tailor to provide to Eggsy, is embroidered with silk thread in the Hart colors of red and gold. "Would you tie it around my wrist?" Harry offers his left hand and Eggsy makes a neat binding. "Thank you."

"No, my lord, thank you." Eggsy smiles and Harry feels blessed. 

"I will be back in just a few moments." Harry kisses Eggsy's hand again and nods to Gwen before rejoining Merlin, who's covertly observing Tristan and Morton having a private conversation. Tristan gives something to Morton, who doesn't do anything for a moment. In a breathless moment, Tristan drapes a chain around Morton's neck and fusses with her cravat.

Harry smiles and turns his back on the pair - better to have a quiet word with Merlin. "That is an arrangement I'd like to see develop."

Merlin agrees. "Tristan has been alone for too long, and I thing that they both deserve a chance at happiness."

"Exactly." Harry finds that in his own happiness, he wants to see that shared amongst his friends.

The quail that inhabit the forest take wing in the brightening dawn. It's time to get this over with.

Merlin helps Harry out of his coat - it's too tight-fitting even for a delopement; Tristan does the same for Morton. The pistols are presented and checked. Merlin and Tristan make the usual enquiries about apologies. 

When Merlin relays that Morton has suggested that quail would be a nice addition to the supper menu, Harry grins.

The meet in the middle and turn back-to-back, counting off ten paces. Harry turns, raises his pistol and points it upward. As he pulls the trigger, he thinks he sees something - someone - not far behind Morton. Morton herself mimics Harry's actions and points her pistol to the sky, but before she fires, the sound of gunshot fills the air and Harry feels a burning pain in his arm.

Someone, someone not Roxanne Morton, shot him. There's blood staining his shirt all Harry can think is that someone wants him dead, some who may have another gun. From the corner of his eye, Harry can see Eggsy bounding out of the carriage and right into the line of fire. He needs to protect Eggsy, to get him down, to keep the shooter from firing again. Harry does the only thing he can think of.

He pretends to faint.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original characters in this story have taken on a life of their own and perhaps it might be a good thing to share who Kyele and I have headcast in these roles:
> 
> Gwendolyn Spenser, Duke of Kilderry:
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> 
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> Perran Austell Hart, _Arlodh_ of Tintagel and First Marquess Cardoc
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> Rhys Marbury Hart, _Arlodhes_ of Tintagel and Marchioness Cardoc
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>  
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>   
> 


	16. The Bargaining Chip

It’s like something out of a gothic novel. Eggsy screams as Harry collapses, and all but throws himself on top of Harry’s body in a dead faint. The doctor gets there bare seconds behind Eggsy and has to nearly shove Eggsy off of Harry in order to get to his actual patient. Tristan seizes Roxy’s arm, nearly pale enough to faint herself.  “But you said,” Tristan says blankly. “You said – ”

“I didn’t fire,” Roxy cries. There should be something more to say, some way to explain, but she’s completely unable to think, never mind look away from the unfolding tableau. Merlin is hauling Eggsy up to a sitting position, shoving something under his nose that makes him cough and open his eyes. The doctor is tearing open Harry’s shirt. Bedivere reaches Roxy and Tristan, and snatches the pistol from Roxy’s limp fingers. Roxy repeats to him: “I didn’t fire.”

Bedivere sniffs the muzzle of the pistol. Then he tears off his cravat, tosses it in the air – it seems to hover, caught by a puff of wind, spreading wide and brilliantly white in the morning sun – points the pistol at it, and fires.

Roxy and Tristan flinch simultaneously from the loud report. Bedivere doesn’t. He snatches the cravat from where it’s crumpled to the ground, shakes it out, and holds it up like a flag for all to see. He’s shot it dead center, and the bullet hole is unmistakable.

“Unless there were two balls – ” Bedivere starts.

“And double powder too?” Tristan growls. She drops Roxy’s arm and spins around, staring at the woodline behind Roxy. She stiffens. _“There!”_

Roxy turns – slowly, too slowly, as Bedivere and Tristan go charging by her. They vanish into the woods, but not for long: although Roxy still can’t see them, the sounds of a struggle reach her ears.

She has a split second to make a decision. As a knight – as Lancelot – perhaps her duty lies with Tristan and Bedivere, getting to the truth of this stealth attack and capturing the perpetrator. Or perhaps it lies with her nominal king, though she’s not a doctor and can do little for him. But before she’d been Lancelot, she’d been a Morton, and – if she can still claim the title – a friend. Her feet carry her towards Eggsy before her conscious mind catches up.

Merlin has gotten Eggsy back into his senses, but abandoned him almost at once to focus on Harry. Any value an extra pair of hands might provide the doctor is available, then. Roxy drops to her knees next to Eggsy, drawing his attention with an arm around his shoulders. Eggsy sags into her, shockingly light.

“Harry’s been shot,” he tells her, as if she might somehow be unaware. Roxy sees his unfocused eyes and clammy skin with worry.

“It’s minor,” the doctor calls. He sounds as if he’s said this before. His hands don’t slow, but his voice is weary. He’s winding a bandage around Harry’s arm. Harry himself has his eyes open again, though they’re little better focused than Eggsy’s. “She just winged him.”

Eggsy stares at Roxy. “You _shot_ him?”

“No!”

“Well, someone did.” Merlin gestures to the ground. Roxy and Eggsy both look: the bullet has embedded itself shallowly into the dirt next to Harry.

“Someone may have, but not I.” Roxy turns to Eggsy. “I swear it. My gun was still loaded. Bedivere and Tristan proved it.”

“Then where are they?” Merlin demands.

“They’re here.” The two knights reappear, but not alone. Accompanying them is –

“Grandsire?” Roxy stares. “When did you get out of the carriage?”

Kilderry waves cheerily. “You don’t think I’d sit around while someone’s taking potshots at Harry? And a good thing, too.” She kicks at the vainly struggling figure being dragged by Tristan and Bedivere.

Roxy stiffens. So does Eggsy.

“Lord Charlie,” Eggsy whispers.

“He doesn’t deserve the title,” Roxy spits. She wants to stand up – well, she wants more than that; she wants to do something to Charlie that will make what she’d done to Cronin seem like a child’s fable – but Eggsy is still slumping against her, and the sight of Charlie seems to have sapped his strength rather than buffered it, so Roxy remains where she is.

“This is your cousin?” Kilderry looks him up and down and shakes her head. “I should have inquired farther into Percival’s family tree before I let James mate with him.”

“As if you could have stopped either of them,” Tristan laughs.

“The relation is by mating,” Roxy says faintly.

Kilderry shrugs. “Too late now,” she says philosophically. “Did I hear someone say Lord Hart’s injury is minor?”

“Barely a scratch.” The doctor produces a flask and hands to Harry, who knocks it back and sits up straight, color returning to his cheeks. “A little red meat and a good night’s sleep is about all the physic this needs.”

“I’d say your cousin’s a poor shot,” Tristan says. She kicks Charlie carelessly, and gives Roxy a fond look when Roxy’s lips quirk up in spite of herself. Then she frowns. “Unless he did it a-purpose to dodge the hangman.”

“No hangman for _him_ ,” Eggsy snarls. Suddenly he’s trembling with half-suppressed energy, and Roxy is holding Eggsy _back_ rather than holding him _up._ “Roxy, I need your pistol. It’s still loaded, right?”

Roxy blinks. “I’m afraid Bedivere fired it.”

Eggsy nods. “A knife, then. Tell me again what you did to that doctor?”

“Perhaps we should be a little less hasty,” Merlin interjects. “There are some questions that Mister King here may be able to answer for us.”

“So I’ll leave his tongue behind!”

Raspy laughter breaks in, and Eggsy’s head spins around so fast Roxy winces. It’s Harry laughing, and Eggsy seems to melt instantly, throwing himself into Harry’s arms so hard Harry nearly ends up flat on his back again with the force of it.

“Easy there,” Merlin mutters, steadying Harry.

“You’re all right,” Eggsy murmurs. He’s looking at Harry, starry-eyed. Harry doesn’t seem much different.

Roxy looks away, clears her throat, and scrambles to her feet, now that her duties in keeping Eggsy from collapsing seem to have been ably adopted by Eggsy’s intended. She approaches her cousin, still held between Bedivere and Tristan. On his knees like that, Charlie seems small. He’s almost a foot taller than Roxy, and his aura of entitlement and dissolution usually expands to fill up the space he’s in. But there’s no filling up the great forest. And Roxy feels suddenly powerful. Everyone in this clearing is her ally. She had sworn to them, and oaths, as she well knows, go both ways.

“What did you hope to accomplish?” she demands of her cousin.

Charlie snarls, then chokes and has to cough. Roxy notices with interest that the spittle on the forest floor is tinged faintly pink. “Tristan,” she says, semi-reproachfully. “I think you may have cracked some of his ribs.”

“Oops,” Tristan says innocently.

“Should I bind them?” That’s the doctor, and he sounds willing enough, but looks dubious.

Roxy makes a show of considering. “Perhaps after I’ve gotten some answers,” she decides. She looks down her nose at Charlie, which makes her want to giggle, inappropriately. “I’ll ask again: what did you hope to accomplish?”

Charlie shakes his head in what must be meant to be defiance. It just looks petulant. Roxy sighs.

“Eggsy?” She pulls her belt-knife and holds it out. “I believe you wanted to express your opinion of my cousin shooting your fiancé.”

Eggsy scrambles eagerly to his feet. Charlie pales. “Wait, wait!”

“Pity,” Merlin mutters.

“Still time later,” Kilderry says hopefully.

Roxy twirls the belt-knife neatly over her knuckles, disdaining to put it away. “Talk.” Charlie mutters something. Roxy coughs. “I didn’t catch that.”

“My aunt disinherited me.”

Roxy’s eyebrows climb for her hairline. “Earl Hesketh? Why?”

“My gambling debts. She said anyone who couldn’t live within their means had no business running an estate. She didn’t understand!”

“Understand what?” Roxy frowns. “And what does this have to do with shooting Harry?”

“She’s been Earl since she turned eighteen – she’s always had enough! She doesn’t know what it’s like to be dependent on someone else for every penny, to never know when your next allowance is going to come, how big it’s going to be – I’m more than of age, I shouldn’t have to account for my spending to anyone! If I enjoy a gamble, so what? I should have more than enough money to play as I choose!”

There’s a moment of deep, profound silence in the clearing. Then Roxy laughs. She laughs and she laughs and she can’t stop. Her stomach hurts. So does her arm: she looks down and sees that Tristan has dropped Charlie’s and taken hers, looking at her in worry. Roxy shakes her head and tries to explain, but she can’t seem to stop laughing.

It’s so _ridiculous_.

“You think,” she gasps, looking at Charlie in astonishment. “You think you just _deserve_ money? For what? For existing?” She gets breath back into her lungs finally, though they ache.

“I’m the grandcub of an Earl!” Charlie has the gall to look offended. Kilderry prudently grabs the arm Tristan had released, keeping him pinned. Despite Kilderry’s advanced age, she seems more than capable of keeping Charlie in check.

In fact – “And I’m the grandcub of a Duke,” Roxy points out, gesturing to Kilderry. “What do _I_ deserve?”

Charlie’s gaze slides away.

“The hangman’s noose?” Tristan suggests, poison dripping from every word. Roxy looks at her in surprise. Tristan nods: _yes, I meant what I said._ “Think about it,” she says. “You and Harry come out here to duel – Harry is killed. How do you prove you didn’t do it? You swing for Harry’s murder – or are transported – either way, what happens to Morton Crescent?”

“It’s not like it was ever really yours,” Charlie bursts out. “My father’s been running it for you for decades. You wouldn’t know what to do with it!”

Roxy starts laughing again.

“It’s true!” Charlie looks around the clearing, searching for support that isn’t coming. “You spend all your time worrying about drainage and pasturage and flooding and – and talking to your tenants and dragging that stupid peasant child around like she’s – ”

Eggsy squawks. “That’s my sister you’re talking about!”

“If I were you I’d consider what you say next very carefully,” Roxy advises. A slow trickle of anger is beginning to climb up her throat. Daisy Unwin is bright and curious and fast to learn, and has a worth ethic and a sense of duty well in excess of her years. If Charlie somehow thinks he’s worth the grass stains on Daisy’s leggings then Roxy clearly needs to educate him to the contrary.

“You have no idea how to be a noble!” Charlie accuses. “ _I_ do. I deserved it.”

The anger dissipates in the face of the sheer idiocy of this statement. There’s no point in trying to educate Charlie; Charlie can never learn.

“Roxy?” Tristan draws her attention.

“It’s like he doesn’t even live in the same England I do,” Roxy says to her. She shakes her head in wondering disbelief. “He’s mentally deranged. It’s the only explanation.”

“Unfortunately his particular brand of derangement is widespread. I’ve seen it a time or twelve before.”

“When fighting?” That makes sense to Roxy: starting a war must require a certain sort of derangement.

Tristan shrugs. “Or at evening parties.”

Roxy turns back to Charlie. “So you wanted Morton Crescent.”

“Is it that grand of an estate?” Bedivere asks curiously.

“Not really.” The figures come easily to Roxy’s mind. “It supports itself and its lords, but it’s hardly rich. Adamilia’s estate – my aunt Earl Hesketh’s – is far larger.”

“Hardly!” Charlie’s objection is swift. He struggles to his feet; Bedivere permits it at a nod from Harry, who is standing now, arm around Eggsy’s waist, doctor hovering nearby. “You’ve got gas in the manor house, and plumbing! Where did the money for that come from? The library is floor to ceiling books, the cottages are tile-roofed – that’s riches, right enough.”

Roxy blinks, taken aback. She looks at Charlie, then around her at Bedivere, Tristan, and the others. “The gas and pipes were run before I was born,” she says slowly. Looks to Kilderry. “Was it out of my carrier’s dowry?”

Kilderry shakes her head. “It had already been modernized when I visited for the mating ceremony.”

“Then I don’t know how – ”

“I do,” Harry says unexpectedly. “Percival talked about it. He’d inherited Morton Crescent right before war broke out – apparently he was shocked by its condition. Modernizing it was his favorite obsession. He funded it all out of his Kingsman shares. If he wasn’t talking our ears off about courting James, he was driving us to distraction going on about running water.”

“Kingsman?” Charlie asks.

Harry’s gaze is cold and rests somewhere slightly above and to the left of Charlie, as if Charlie himself is too unimportant to be looked upon. “The military organization of which Earl Morton was a member,” he says. “Such monies as he earned in the course of his duties pass only by blood right. _You_ would not have inherited them.”

“No, that can’t be right.” Charlie sounds panicked now. “There was money there, there had to have been. I could have sold parts of the estate – ”

“To fund your gambling habit?” Roxy sneers.

“You don’t understand, I’m in debt!” Charlie does look actually frightened, Roxy notices. “A lot of debt! My father had a plan to pay it off, but it went wrong, and I had to do something!”

“Aren’t you the one who holds his debt?” Roxy looks over her shoulder to Harry.

“I am indeed,” Harry agrees.

“You do realize that debts don’t vanish when a creditor dies?” Tristan asks rhetorically.

Charlie looks mulish. “I had to do _something_ ,” he repeats.

“Killing Harry would have slowed down the collections process, at any rate,” Bedivere muses. “If he also got Lancelot out of the way, he might actually have had the funds to pay when Harry’s heir eventually comes knocking.”

“Who the hell is Lancelot?” Charlie demands.

“I am.” Roxy laughs again. “And in rather a reversal of your original plans, dear cousin, _you_ are about to solve all of _my_ problems for _me_.”

“I’m – _what_?”

Tristan is also looking at Roxy oddly. “Yes, what _do_ you mean?”

“I admit, I’m curious as well,” Harry says.

“Oh, it’s quite simple, really.” Roxy beams down at her cousin. For some reason, Charlie shrinks back from her, but that’s all right. “You’re going to remain my guest for a while. Not terribly long, I don’t think. Just until I forget to tell the authorities about your actions this morning. Which I expect to happen shortly _after_ my uncle sees the wisdom of signing some paperwork giving me total authority over Morton Crescent.”

“You can’t override your sire’s will,” Harry points out.

Roxy widens her eyes and puts her hand over her heart. “Of course not! Chester will remain trustee, just as the will stipulates. He’s just going to agree with every single thing I say from now on. And he’ll have to live elsewhere – for his health, of course. Naturally his son will wish to dwell with him.” She considers towns and distances. “I think Bath will be nice. I’ll even make them an allowance. There! Aren’t I a dutiful branch?”

“I’ll take you to court,” Charlie blusters. “Contracts made under duress aren’t enforceable.”

“Duress? What duress?” Roxy’s smile widens, too, to match her eyes. “You don’t plan to admit that you were out here trying to murder Marquess Cardoc, do you?”

“I – er – well – ”

“And it’s hardly duress for you to stay in London for a while, as the guest of your beloved cousin.” Roxy bows, indicating herself.

“I do believe I just heard your cousin accept your most gracious offer of his own free will,” Kilderry says brightly. “And the word of a Duke is usually taken quite seriously.”

“I’ll even arrange for the nicest of lodgings, carefully chosen with your habits and comfort in mind, dear Charlie.” She looks to Harry. “There are some chambers available in the Black Hart, are there not? Perhaps underground? Where he won’t be bothered with the noise of the club.”

“Quite soundless chambers,” Harry agrees gravely. “I believe they are free at the moment. As a part owner of the club, Lord Morton, you are perfectly within your rights to request their use. Mr. King is welcome to stay for as long as you desire.”

“Part owner?” Charlie is staring at Roxy as if she’s grown a second head.

Roxy snaps her fingers. “Why, that’s right,” she says, recalling. “I do have a stake, don’t I? Which means – I have a stake in Charlie’s debt, as well.”

“I would be pleased to transfer his vowels to you, as part of your next dividend,” Harry says smoothly.

“Thank you, Lord Hart,” Roxy smiles. “I think I would like to have those. Just in case my uncle ever tries to reconsider the wisdom of our upcoming agreement.”

“You can’t do this,” Charlie wails.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure she can,” Tristan says. She’s grinning at Roxy. “And I think this means you won’t need to go to Lady Musgrave’s garden-party after all.”

“Will your curricle make it as far as Morton Crescent, do you think?”

“If the weather’s fine.”

“Well then, that seems to be in hand,” Harry says briskly, stepping forward. All the attention in the clearing snaps to him. Now that the affair of honor between them is settled she’s free to admire the effortless way he takes command. Unless –

“Er – Lord Hart?”

Harry turns to her. “Yes?”

Roxy bows. “Despite the unorthodox process and the utter lack of quail, I am satisfied.”

“Ah.” He bows in return. “Likewise. And I was about to suggest we all accompany your cousin back to the club – where, in addition to showing him his temporary lodgings, my cook should be able to provide us with at least a pheasant or three. To compensate for the lack of quail. What say you?”

“I think,” Roxy says in satisfaction, “that that sounds absolutely delicious.”

* * *

They all pile into their various carriages for the trip back into Town. Roxy suspects there’s been a slight shuffle in the arrangements – she’s fairly certain Eggsy had traveled here separately from Harry, for example – but she makes sure she’s looking at something completely different when Eggsy climbs up after Harry, the doctor, and Merlin. Kilderry settles herself in her own closed carriage with every appearance of cheer. There’s a moment’s pause, and then she sticks her head back out. “Well, I’m not going alone!”

Roxy, Tristan, and Bedivere all look at each other. Kilderry makes an impatient gesture. “Oh, you know which of you I mean.”

“But it’s my carriage,” Bedivere says blankly, gesturing to the barouche on which the Dunwell arms are prominently featured.

Kilderry raises her eyebrows. “Tristan can drive it perfectly well, I’m sure. Let she and Lancelot have a nice quiet drive, and you can tell me all the Kingsman exploits I’ve missed.”

Bedivere laughs. “Yes, your Grace.” He winks at Tristan and heads up into Kilderry’s carriage.

“Hmph,” Kilderry says in satisfaction, pulling the door closed. A moment later her driver whips up the horses.

“We seem to be alone,” Tristan murmurs. She gestures to the carriage – unattended; they had driven themselves. “Quite a breach of protocol, really.”

“I think it’s different for Alphas.” Roxy frowns. “Which seems… unfair…”

“Considering that you just fought a duel over Eggsy being alone with Harry?” Tristan shrugs. Then, shockingly, she leans in and kisses Roxy.

It lasts a moment. It lasts an eternity. Tristan is a few inches taller than Roxy, just enough that they fit together neatly like two puzzle pieces. Her lips are chapped and her hands around Roxy’s waist are broad and calloused. She’s nothing like Tilde. Except that her kisses, too, make Roxy feel warm all the way through.

“Maybe we can write it off as compensation for not getting to stand in a church together,” Tristan says seriously, after they part.

That sobers Roxy up. “My uncle’s cooperation relieves me of the immediate necessity of mating, but in the excitement of the moment, I forgot – I will still need an heir.”

“No cousins?”

“None that are descended from my sire’s sire. It would go out farther – I believe there’s a branch of the family in Ireland that would inherit, but…” Roxy trails off.

“You don’t need to explain,” Tristan says. “Your love of your land has driven your every move since you left your home to come after Eggsy Unwin. I’m not asking you to change that. Just to give this a try and see where it goes.”

Roxy touches the chain at her neck. “I’d like to try,” she admits.

“Then we’ll try. Leave the future alone.” Tristan smiles. “Who knows? Maybe a foundling will turn up on your doorstep, and you can claim them as your own.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Roxy smiles, and sighs. The closest thing to a foundling that’s ever turned up at Morton Crescent was Daisy Unwin, and she’d come complete with parentage attached. Not that that’s widely known about the estate. Roxy knows the truth about Dean Baker, of course, and so does Eggsy, but that’s where it ends. Michelle had given Daisy Lee’s last name and stuck to it defiantly even though there’s been more than one round of gossip on the subject – Roxy isn’t sure how, but servants have a way of finding out things, even the date of death of a military officer that makes it clear Lee Unwin could be no sire of Daisy’s…

Roxy frowns. Something begins to niggle at her, the shadow of an idea starting to form. Everyone on the estate knows that Lee Unwin had fought beside Percival Morton, had saved Percival’s life at the cost of his own, and that Michelle had come to Morton Crescent for the bequest Percival had left in his will. That much has never been in doubt, no matter the gossip. But David and Bathsheba is an old story, after all.

All lies, of course. And slanderous to Percival’s good name. But Percival is dead, and Roxy is alive, and Morton Crescent needs an heir.

“Roxy,” Tristan calls softly. The touch of her fingers on Roxy’s arm draws Roxy back to the present. “What are you thinking of?”

Roxy clears her throat. “Daydreaming,” she says. “Of the future.”

“I approve,” Tristan smiles. “But I think we shouldn’t let the others get too far ahead of us. Shall I drive?”

Roxy looks longingly at the reins. But though she’d been dutifully taught the mechanics, as befits her role, her practical experience is limited to horseback and the occasional farm-wagon. “Probably,” she sighs.

“Oh no, that won’t do,” Tristan says. “Come. Into the seat with you. No time like the present to learn.”

Roxy breaks into a grin and clambers up. “You’re right,” she agrees. “No time like the present.”

* * *

The pheasant is delicious. So is the wine. And the private dining-room at the Black Hart is sumptuous. Roxy sprawls in her chair as the port goes around, too satiated to maintain her posture, and sighs with sheer animal happiness. “If this is how my cousin dined every night,” she says, “I begin to understand how he was so willing to go into debt.”

Tristan laughs and fills Roxy’s glass as well as her own. “Don’t go glutton on me, now,” she chides. “You’ve still got a problem that needs solving, and he won’t keep in the cellars forever.”

“Though I’d be willing to wall off the door and leave him there,” Harry offers. He’s loosed his cravat now that Eggsy, the lone carrier of their party, has departed for the private drawing room. One of Tilde’s employees is to bring him tea and keep him company until the gentleman join him. From the way Harry keeps glancing at the door, Roxy doesn’t expect them to linger long.

“If Chester isn’t willing to see reason, I may take you up on that,” Roxy sighs. “At least there’d be one fewer King living off my land and giving me grief.”

“You know…” Bedivere clears his throat.

“Don’t say it.” Roxy sighs again. “I’ve thought of it, believe me. After Cronin, Chester would be easy. But where’s the line? Chester hasn’t killed anyone. He’s just bad with money.”

Merlin toasts Roxy from across the table. “Wisdom is knowing when to stay yer hand.”

“Weren’t you the one sharpening your castrating knives for Mr. King downstairs?” Tristan asks idly.

“That’s different,” Merlin says with dignity.

Kilderry leans forward in interest, chin in her hands. “Tell me more about these knives."

Harry stands up abruptly. “I’m going to see Eggsy.”

Kilderry rolls her eyes, but rises as well, smoothly covering Harry’s lapse in etiquette – Roxy guesses he’s unused to having anyone at his own table, at least the one here at his club, outrank him. “Let us go drink our tea, then.”

Perforce, the rest of them straggle to their feet and towards the door. “Roxy,” Tristan murmurs quietly, touching her arm so they hang back, letting the others exit ahead of them. “Eggsy was Chester King’s junior secretary, right? Anything else? What I mean is – ”

“Did Uncle Chester take liberties?” Roxy shakes her head. “Not with Eggsy.”

“Forgive me, but – ”

“But how can I be certain?” Roxy smiles humorlessly. “Uncle Chester has a rather pronounced distaste for male-presenting Omegas.”

“Oh,” Tristan says in surprise. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Roxy shrugs. “Nor I, but I don’t like Omegas at all, so I suppose I’m in no position to judge. No: Uncle Chester would diddle with the housemaids, sometimes, but Eggsy he left alone. Now, my cousin – ”

Tristan snorts. “He hasn’t got a prick to piss with.”

“But his hands wander. Still, he was away at school when Eggsy had his first heat, and rarely came home even for holidays. He preferred to go off to London to lose my family’s money.”

Tristan nods slowly. “If either of them had – you understand, Harry would demand a weregild. He yielded Cronin to you in light of your carrier, but he wouldn’t let you barter Charlie off to Chester without vengeance first.”

“I understand.”

“All right.” Tristan gestures to the door. “We should catch up to the others.”

Roxy turns towards the door, but before she can lay a hand on it, it opens on its own. “Lord Hart – ” a familiar voice begins, then stops as Tilde enters the room. “Oh, Roxanne!” she exclaims warmly. She catches up Roxy’s hand and bows over it, courtly. Roxy’s cheeks heat with sudden flame at the daring nature of the gesture – Roxy is no Omega, to be treated so – but can’t deny a flutter of pleasure, either. Then, seeing Roxy’s companion, Tilde collects herself into something resembling propriety and offers a smooth bow. “And Earl Aberlundy. A pleasure. Perhaps you can inform me – I understood Marquess Cardoc was visiting the club tonight?”

“He is,” Roxy says, uncomfortably aware of Tristan’s raised eyebrows and general look of surprise at the warmth – even intimacy – of Tilde’s greeting. “But he may not – that is, he is accompanied – ”

“By that lovely young Omega who is to be his Marchioness. Yes, Betty and Tommy are playing sorority for Miss Unwin tonight. A gambling hell is hardly a place to let a gently bred Omega out here alone, however much ginger he’s got in his step.” Tilde laughs.

“Ah, you’ve met him,” Tristan says, somewhat guardedly.

“I make it my business to be well-informed about those with whom I do… well… business,” Tilde says, still smiling genially. “A most fascinating young Omega. I look forward to seeing how love changes Lord Hart. It usually does, you know.”

“Yes,” Tristan says. She’s somewhat grinding her teeth now. “I do know.”

Roxy, caught between them, wishes she could sink into the floor. “I could let Lord Hart know you hope to have a few words with him tonight.”

“Thank you, Lord Morton,” Tilde says. “That’s very good of you. And if he can’t spare the time, perhaps you’ll be so good as to deliver that message to me?” Her smile warms. “Personally?”

“Certainly,” Roxy says, half-strangled.

“Good evening, then.” Tilde takes her leave with a graceful twirl. A waft of her perfume remains behind, hanging in the air like an accusation.

“Tristan – ” Roxy begins.

“I see I was behindhand in my pursuit,” Tristan says, almost at the same time. She sounds stiff. Roxy eyes her and is reminded of the way the cats at Morton Crescent would snub the kitchen servants, tails erect and bearing dainty, if they felt the servants had been behindhand in the matter of scraps. The comparison makes Roxy want to giggle; she suppresses the urge.

“Then let this be another way in which matters are different for Alphas,” Roxy says instead, letting a certain sternness be heard.

“What way?”

“Not worrying about being first in someone’s bed.”

That makes Tristan blink and falter slightly. “I – oh.”

“Surely you’ve shared pleasure with others,” Roxy says, gently now.

“Is that a reference to my age?” Despite her words, Tristan seems to be unbending slightly.

“You knew my sire,” Roxy points out. “I don’t need to know your birth year to guess you’ve had considerably more life experience than I have.”

“Well, yes, but…” Tristan sighs. “I seem to be being jealous. And also a hypocrite. I think it’s the neck-chain. I’ve never given any of my lovers jewelry before.”

“And here I haven’t even yet become your lover.” Roxy pretends to frown. “I thought your intentions were honorable.”

Tristan groans. “Roxanne Morton, you’re killing me.”

“I did think you were suggesting we do more than tumble about in the sheets.” Roxy’s frown becomes more real. She touches the chain again, remembering how it had felt to have Tristan fasten it around her neck. “Something that started more slowly, but lasted, perhaps, somewhat longer.”

“I was,” Tristan says fiercely. “I am.”

“Then what do you have to be jealous about?”

Tristan grumbles. “All right, all right, I’m being an idiot.” She sighs. “This is awful. I haven’t been in love in decades. I forgot how much it twists you up.”

Roxy looks at her. Thinks of the way her skin shivers when Tristan is near, as if it’s trying to crawl closer to the other Alpha. The way she wants to hear Tristan laugh. The smiles that Tristan keeps pulling out of her. The fierce pride she’d felt when Tristan had thrown her arms around Roxy after Roxy had become Lancelot, and kissed her cheek with rather more fervor than any other of her new knight-siblings had.

“Is this love?” Roxy asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Tristan says, with half a laugh, “but it’s not a roll in the sheets, and it’s not a friendship, and there’s not much else I can think of for it to be.”

“Oh.” Roxy stands there, feeling slightly foolish and more than a little giddy. “Well then.”

“I’m sorry I was twitchy.” Tristan makes an abortive movement towards Roxy, as if she wants to put her hand on Roxy’s arm but is afraid it’s unwelcome. “Are you going to see Tilde later? If Harry says he can’t?”

“I think I’d better see her either way. Otherwise she won’t understand.”

“Understand?”

“Why I won’t be going back to her bed.”

“Ah.” Tristan bobs her head. “Yes. That sounds like a good conversation for you two to have.”

“And if you’re this stiff about it afterwards, I shall have to reconsider whether you’re well enough to go riding with me tomorrow,” Roxy says thoughtfully.

Now Tristan laughs and gives in to the urge to touch Roxy, slinging an arm around her shoulders and steering them both out of the room. “You know I’ll rise to _that_ occasion,” she murmurs.

Roxy shivers pleasurably – both at the warmth of Tristan’s arm, and at the double entendre. “I look forward to it,” she says.

* * *

The rest of the day passes slowly, but not unpleasantly. Roxy learns that it’s common for knights, while in London, to spend their free time wherever Arthur happens to be; since Harry Hart seems to spend the bulk of his time at either his well-appointed townhome or at the Kingsman-owned club, this is no hardship.

“It’s not exactly a requirement,” Bedivere says, lounging on a balcony overlooking the gaming tables. At midafternoon, they’re hardly bustling, but neither are they unattended. “But the longer you do this, the more you’ll find you’re most comfortable in the company of those with shared experiences.”

“And for those of us still keeping bachelor houses, the board is better here,” Tristan adds. “Anything you need can be brought to you.”

That much is certainly true. Counsellor Gideon has been and gone, helping Roxy draft the paperwork she wants Chester to sign. She also looks over the letter Roxy has already written to her uncle and delicately suggests Roxy remove a few potentially incriminating phrases. Naturally Roxy takes her excellent advice.

Now the letter has been dispatched and there’s little to do but wait. Roxy counts days in her head, the post to Morton Crescent and back again, watching as the baccarat croupier flips a card with the delicate edge of his paddle. Three slender, graceful figures cut a path through the crowd: Tilde’s employees. Roxy stirs impatiently at the reminder and rises.

“I need to go talk to Tilde,” she says to Tristan. “Will I see you at dinner?”

“Of course,” Tristan says, as Bedivere looks on in surprise.

She remembers the way: down the stairs to the main hall, through the tables, and over to the side door that connects to Tilde’s establishment. That leaves her in the tastefully decorated parlor, and a smiling Beta woman – Annelle, who manages the schedules and collects the fees – rises to greet her.

“Is Tilde in?” Roxy asks.

Annelle bobs her head. “Yes, m’lord – ”

“Is that Lord Roxy?” One of the many doors lining the parlor opens, and Eggsy sticks his head out. “Roxy! I was hoping to see you.”

“Miss Unwin, you’re not supposed to be seen,” Annelle scolds. “Think of your reputation.”

“A fig for my reputation,” Eggsy says impatiently.

“Well, after all, he has already landed his Alpha,” another voice giggles. Two more heads appear: Betty and Tommy, Roxy guesses. “Titled _and_ rich. We should all be so lucky.”

“Speak for yourself,” the other Omega returns. “ _I’ve_ no interest in a mate.”

“All of you, get out of sight, or some lordling passing through will think you’re available,” Annelle sighs. “Lord Morton – ”

“I’ll just step in to have a word with my friend,” Roxy says diplomatically. It seems the best way to get Eggsy back out of sight, and she should have time enough before dinner to go on to speak to Tilde afterwards.

“Thank you,” Annelle says gratefully.

Roxy hurries to get inside the room, mindful of Annelle’s worry, and closes the door hastily behind her. This chamber appears to be a kind of pocket drawing room: it’s small, much too small to entertain in, but it’s papered in a cheerful bright yellow and filled with furniture that makes up in seeming comfort what it lacks in elegance.

“This is where we relax in between clients,” one of the Omegas says – Tommy, Roxy guesses. “Just us carriers, but I suppose we’ll make an exception for you.”

“Thank you,” Roxy says gravely.

“I owe you an apology,” Eggsy says, drawing Roxy’s attention.

“I got your letter.”

“Yes, but I’m still sorry. I wasn’t – ” Eggsy pauses. “Has Gwen talked to you?”

“Gwen?” Roxy boggles. “Do you mean my grandsire?”

“Yes – the duke. She said to call her Gwen.”

“Gwen,” Roxy repeats.

“Or Duke Gwen.”

There’s a giggle from the corner where Tommy and Betty have tucked themselves. Roxy ignores it. “Yes,” she says, choosing to discard the fact that her grandsire, the Duke of Kilderry, has apparently started styling herself _Gwen_. “We talked.”

“Did she tell you about me?”

“About you?” Roxy stares. “No.”

“Or James?”

“My carrier?”

“Ah.” Eggsy takes a deep breath. “Okay, so. There’s a condition. That affects Omegas. Mostly purebloods, Gwen said. Well, I’m no noble, but I don’t think there’s a Beta in my line for five generations or so… anyway. You told me once that after – that when your sire came home to visit, after he left, your carrier would have a period of depression?” Eggsy’s voice rises at the end, making it a question.

Roxy’s throat closes; she manages a nod. Yes, she’d told Eggsy that. A little, anyway. Just enough so that he’d understand why the topic is a sensitive one, and not one she wished to hear questions on. Eggsy had been so curious about Morton Crescent when he’d arrived. He’d wanted to know everything about his new home – its history, its holdings, and naturally enough, its lords. But Roxy has always tried to forget the way James would sink into gloom every time Percival’s leave had ended. Unless James had managed to conceive. But that just put off the inevitable, as it turned out.

“Well. It’s – it wasn’t just James. Duke Gwen told me Duchess Alastair used to suffer from it, too. James probably inherited it. I think my carrier must have felt it, too, to take up with Dean the way she did…”

“What does this mean?” Roxy makes her voice as gentle as she can, but her pulse is beating impatiently at her throat. She doesn’t understand.

“It means that I – that some Omegas don’t deal well with – ” Eggsy falters.

“Abandonment,” Roxy guesses dully. She can understand why Eggsy doesn’t want to say the word: who wants to accuse someone of abandoning their mate? She and Eggsy are friends, she thinks. And Eggsy knows how complicated Roxy’s feelings towards her parents are. Of course he wouldn’t want to say Percival had abandoned James. But: “That’s what happened. Abandonment. And my carrier could never handle it. It broke something in him, every time.”

“Yes,” Eggsy says quietly. “It can make us ill. Physically, I mean. Like there are serious physical consequences. Not just emotional.”

“Is that what you were feeling? Because I separated you from Harry?” Roxy swallows hard, guilt rising like bile. “No wonder you were so furious at me. I didn’t understand.”

“Neither did I,” Eggsy hastens to assure her. “I was all topsy-turvy, lashing out – what I said wasn’t fair. You were right to call me on it. It wasn’t – I was saying all of those things because of how I felt. Not because they were necessarily true. And it was unfair to you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Roxy whispers. “I shouldn’t have let that happen to you. And then I called you silly when you were genuinely ill. Please forgive me.”

“I will if you will,” Eggsy says, holding out a hand.

Roxy takes it, trying to smile. “Of course.” She squeezes Eggsy’s hand, and his smile makes hers more real. She takes a breath, then another, feeling her shoulders slump slightly in relief. She’s just so glad Eggsy is okay. And as long as she can keep Eggsy and Harry together, she doesn’t have to start being afraid that Eggsy will suffer the same fate James had.

“Just kiss already!” Tommy hollers from the corner.

Roxy’s cheeks heat so fast it’s a wonder they don’t catch flame. She whips around to glare at the two Omegas, in time to see Betty elbow Tommy swiftly in the side. “He’s being courted!” she hisses, pointing to the bracelet on Eggsy’s wrist. “By someone else! You’re gonna cause a duel!”

Eggsy makes a sound that suspiciously approximates suppressed laughter. Or possibly outrage. He gives Roxy a speaking look.

“My affections are likewise engaged elsewhere,” Roxy assures them. “And all the parties involved are well aware of how matters stand. I think we need not fear that one ill-timed jest will cause a duel.”

“Another duel,” Eggsy mutters.

“Another duel,” Roxy concedes.

“What’s this?” Betty leaves off bothering Tommy and leans forward. “A duel? For your honor, Miss Unwin?”

“Well – ” Eggsy hesitates.

“You must tell us everything! _Everything!_ ”

“I regret I must excuse myself,” Roxy says hastily. “I appointed to meet with Tilde before dinner.”

Eggsy blinks. “With _Tilde_?” In the corner, Tommy snickers.

Roxy gives him a quelling look. “She asked me to convey a message to Lord Hart, and I bear his reply.”

“Ah.” Eggsy looks relieved. “All right. Well, I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Only if you finish telling us about the duel first!” Betty threatens.

“At dinner,” Roxy agrees. “I’ll come fetch you myself, to make sure of it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Eggsy says wryly.

* * *

Once again in the parlor, the door closed behind her, Roxy breathes a sigh of relief. Annelle gives her a wry look. “Tommy and Betty are high-spirited, but very discreet,” she assures Roxy. “You needn’t be concerned.”

“Thank you,” Roxy sighs. “I’ll just…” she gestures towards the stairway that leads up to Tilde’s private chambers.

“Of course.” Annelle turns away, busying herself with account-books. Roxy turns towards the stairs and sighs.

 _No time like the present_. That’s Tristan speaking in her memory, but it’s a motto Roxy thinks she’d do well to adopt. She’s lived so many years just waiting – waiting to be of age, waiting to find an Omega who will mate with Roxy under terms they both can live with, waiting for Chester to die or suddenly discover the meaning of duty. Waiting for something to change rather than trying to _make_ change. Well, Roxy’s making change now. She’d started when she’d ridden away from Morton Crescent in search of Eggsy. And if she doesn’t want to end this confined to a sanitorium after all, she’s going to have to keep _making_ change.

It's just that it’s so much easier, somehow, to contemplate incarcerating her cousin and blackmailing her uncle than it is to face her lover and tell her… tell her what, exactly? Roxy’s steps slow as she reaches the top of the stairs, and she hesitates on the landing, trying, belatedly, to plan an approach.

Tilde foils this plan by opening the door to her chambers before Roxy approaches, much less knocks. Tilde’s fully dressed for the upcoming evening. She’s beautiful. Roxy watches the way her earring bobs as she steps back to let Roxy in, and a wave of yearning swamps her.

“Tilde,” Roxy says helplessly. She manages to make her legs work enough to enter the room, and only jumps a little when Tilde closes the door behind her with a very final-sounding _thud_. “I…”

“Oh, dear,” Tilde says with a sigh. “Come on now. Don’t make me do the breaking up on top of everything else.”

That steadies Roxy. “No, I – I can see that wouldn’t be fair.” She looks around for somewhere to sit, but there’s only the chair before Tilde’s vanity, where Tilde sits to do her makeup – too fraught. And the bed is certainly right out. So Roxy stands there awkwardly, shifting her weight from side to side.

“Go on then,” Tilde encourages. _She_ sits in the chair, generously giving Roxy the advantage of height.

“I – I really liked what we did together. All of it.”

“I know,” Tilde says immodestly.

Roxy laughs without meaning to, and relaxes somewhat – intentional on Tilde’s part, no doubt. “I did,” she says earnestly. “You showed me – I didn’t know it could be like that. That meant a lot. And I still – ” she blushes. “You’re – very desirable.”

“This is a very odd breakup,” Tilde murmurs.

“I just didn’t want you to think I didn’t like you,” Roxy bursts out. “I do. Very much. But there’s someone else I like too. And she wants to try – to try something more serious. Which, forgive me, but…” She hesitates.

“Perspicacious.” Tilde smiles. “I enjoyed my time with you very much, Lord Morton. But you are quite correct. I am interested in pleasure, not entanglements.”

“I think,” Roxy says, knowing it to be true even as she says it, “that I’m the sort of person who prefers entanglements.”

“Ah well.” Tilde sighs. “It was lovely. Truly lovely. You’re so innocent. I don’t see much of that, in my line of work.”

“I hope you enjoyed what we did as much as I did.”

“Very much, young lord.” Tilde rises from her vanity, coming to put her hands on Roxy’s shoulders. “Very much.”

She leans forward, telegraphing her intentions, giving Roxy plenty of time to turn away. Perhaps Roxy should – probably Roxy should – but she doesn’t. She wants to kiss Tilde one last time. So she does: she stands still, and lets Tilde’s lips meet hers.

It’s so different than kissing Tristan. Tilde’s lips are soft and supple, her skin smooth and well-cared-for. Her kisses are experienced. Even in a kiss that is clearly meant to say farewell, there’s a flirtatiousness that Tilde may not even realize is still there – probably can’t be without. But for all the skill Tilde brings to the act, and all the pleasure her touch and her smiles and her daring brings Roxy, there’s still something missing. Something that Tristan’s kisses, artless as they are, possesses in spades.

“Tilde…” Roxy begins, when they part at last. She’s frantic to go and unwilling to leave; she wants to say everything and nothing.

“Perhaps you’ll visit again if you find yourself between partners,” Tilde says gently. She smooths down a crease of Roxy’s jacket, ensuring all is perfection. “You’ll know where to find me, if you want to share pleasure.”

Roxy smiles in relief and genuine appreciation. “I will do that,” she says, meaning it. She bows. “Be well, Tilde.”

“Be well, young Morton.”

Roxy kisses her again. Then she turns and takes the stair out of Tilde’s establishment, and turns her steps towards the Black Hart, and Tristan.

* * *

The days come and go. Roxy shifts her belongings from Mistress Jeanne’s to Tristan’s, thanking Mistress Jeanne warmly and paying her handsomely for the use of her lodgings. Roxy had fumblingly suggested that perhaps Tristan’s offer of house-room had been contingent upon Roxy intending to find a mate. Tristan had laughed. Rather a lot.

Roxy marks the day when her letter must reach Morton Crescent with a red X. Of course it’s impossible for her to receive any response until the post can travel in the reverse direction. Not to mention any time Chester will require to compose his reply. Still, Roxy informs her cousin of the date during her daily visit to his chambers beneath the Black Hart. Charlie chooses to curse at her. Roxy shakes her head and leaves without another word. Charlie is dwelling in more comfort than any of Morton Crescent tenants can claim: Roxy has no guilt whatsoever.

She’s out of sorts the rest of the day, though. Finally, after even Tristan has abandoned her to go play for penny stakes at the Kingsman’s private table, Roxy goes and seeks out Eggsy. He’s most often to be found at Tilde’s establishment, where what had started as an arrangement of propriety had turned into genuine friendships with many of the Omegas in her employ. And Roxy has found, somewhat to her surprise, that she’s welcomed in that company, at least to a certain degree.

“Tilde told us you was safe,” Tommy says with a shrug when Roxy expresses her astonishment at being brought, all unasked, into the same pocket parlor where she’d first found Eggsy, the afternoon after the duel. “Says you like what we like, mostly.”

Roxy risks a glance at Eggsy. “That’s… well.”

“Relax, guv, no one’s going to take the word of a whore.” Tommy laughs. “Sides, we cater to that clientele, don’t we.”

“Oh,” Roxy says blankly. That’s an aspect of the sexual trades she’s never considered. She feels abruptly foolish. Why on Earth had she assumed that all of Tilde’s clients were Alphas?  

“And you never said anything to me,” Eggsy says reproachfully.

“Never diddled with you either, did she,” Betty retorts. “Luckier than you know.”

“Not with Charlie’s wandering hands,” Eggsy says, gloomy now, and everyone in the room nods. Clearly Eggsy has filled them in somewhat on the intimates of Morton Crescent.

Today, though, Eggsy isn’t to be found in the pocket parlor, eagerly studying makeup tips or swapping stories about Alphas and the management thereof. He’s upstairs, in the area of the Black Hart where the private chambers for the owners are located, overseeing the packing of two large trunks.

“So Harry won this argument?” Roxy guesses, looking over the chaos. Eggsy’s personal maid is by the wardrobe, folding tunics and placing them carefully flat among layers of tissue paper. Another household servant is sorting ribbons into a box, while the jewel-case is already closed and locked. Eggsy is sitting on his bed in the middle of this chaos, looking mulish.

“He won’t listen to reason,” Eggsy says. “I don’t see how I’m any safer in Richmond than I am here.”

“It’s not unreasonable to think that Uncle Chester would choose to come in person rather than write,” Roxy says. “I would, in his place.”

“Old Stinkbottom’s never stirred an inconvenient step in his life,” Eggsy snorts. “He’ll write to his man of business and that will be the end of it. Harry is being paranoid.”

Roxy shrugs. “Maybe.”

Eggsy looks betrayed. “You _agree_ with him?”

“Chester stooped to disreputable behavior once before,” Roxy points out.

“Then I’m safest here, where you are all around,” Eggsy argues. “There’s always at least a few knights knocking about. Like you!”

“But Chester knows the Black Hart is Harry’s club,” Roxy counters. “He knows this is where Charlie lost all that money. He has no idea that Harry owns a cottage in Richmond. If he does come looking for you, he’ll look for you here. Meanwhile you’ll be miles away in comfort and safety.”

Eggsy flops back on his bed in disgust. “I’m not made of glass.”

Tentatively, Roxy comes to sit on the edge of the bed, deciding that the presence of the household servants count as far as proper chaperoning goes. “Is it really so bad to be treated like something precious?” she asks.

“That’s not fair,” Eggsy says, muffled but accusing.

Roxy shrugs a little. “I’d like it.”

“Ugh,” Eggsy says eloquently.

“When are you leaving?” Roxy thinks it best to change the subject.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll say farewell at breakfast, then.”

“I’ll be back as soon as Chester signs.” Eggsy sits up and sighs. “After all, I’ve got a wedding to plan.”

Roxy pats his knee. “I think we’re all looking forward to that.”

* * *

The next morning dawns bright and fair, and after the plates are cleared away, Eggsy climbs into the carriage with Merlin for driver. His maid has gone ahead with the luggage, leaving them technically unchaperoned and tête-à-tête.

Kilderry, having come by specially to see Eggsy off – she’s taken quite a liking to him – looks shocked to see Eggsy without so much as a manservant. “But – ”

“We don’t stand _that_ much on ceremony, Gwen,” Harry sighs.

“Propriety is still propriety. Important to observe if you hope to establish Eggsy in Society.”

“I don’t see any Society here.”

After a moment the Duke nods. “Very well,” she says grudgingly.

“Speaking of which.” Eggsy leans out the window of the carriage, Harry leans forward, and they share a quick peck of lips. “I’ll see you soon, darling,” Harry murmurs. “And you might find there’s something waiting for you at Richmond. A token of my admiration.”

“And gratitude for me going at all?” Eggsy asks shrewdly.

Harry smiles. “Just so.”

As the carriage rattles off,  Harry stands in the drive of his townhouse and watches them go with a truly hangdog look on his face. Kilderry looks somewhat ruffled. Roxy has to suppress laughter.

Bedivere rolls his eyes where Harry can’t see. “I can see I’d better get myself a mate soon,” he sighs. “So much for a bachelor company.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tristan says, smiling at Roxy. “I rather like bachelor company.”

Harry heads out shortly after for the Black Hart, but instead of following him there, Tristan and Roxy go out on the town. There’s so much to see and do in London – so much Roxy had missed out on during her one short Season. Today they ride their horses down the Row and then retire to Tristan’s club for a late luncheon. A stroll through some of the shops concludes the afternoon, and then they drive back to Harry’s townhouse for dinner.

“Though the conversation will mostly be Harry interrogating Merlin about Eggsy’s every glance, sigh, and gesture,” Roxy sighs.

“Our Arthur commands, and we attend,” Tristan says with a wry grin. “I just hope they mate before Midsummer, so we can all be put out of our misery."

“You and I both,” Roxy agrees fervently.

Tristan pulls the curricle up at Harry’s doorstep and they dismount, Tristan turning the reins over to one of Harry’s stable-boys. The sound of wheels rattling and hooves clattering makes them turn. Drawing up behind them is the Cardoc carriage, back from its journey to Richmond.

“Ho there!” Tristan calls jovially. “You’ve made excellent time, Merlin, the gong’s not yet even run. You must have been whipping them up something – fierce – Merlin? Merlin, what is it?”

Roxy is closer. She darts forward and catches Merlin as he all but topples off the seat.

“I’m fine,” Merlin gasps. This is patently false; he’s half-swooning, a trickle of blood seeping from behind one ear, and the way he tries to straighten and fails doesn’t speak of good health, either. “Harry. Where’s Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Tristan says. “Here, or the club – you there!” to the butler, who has opened the door and is staring at the tableau in perplexity. “Where’s Cardoc?”

“Still at the club, my Lord,” the man replies promptly.

“Then we need to go there,” Merlin says. “At once.”

“You’re hardly in any shape,” Roxy protests, but Merlin shakes his head.

“Chester King,” Merlin says.

“What?”

“At Richmond. Didn’t see him coming.”

Roxy pales. “Eggsy?”

Merlin shakes his head again.

“Get in the back,” Tristan says, leaping onto the driver’s seat and seizing the slack reins. “You’re in no shape to drive. Roxy, make sure he doesn’t swoon on the way. Merlin, you can tell us everything when we get there.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, and then, in direct contravention of Tristan’s order, promptly passes out.


	17. In Peril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chester King, Old Stinkbottom himself, threatens everyone's happiness. But Eggsy will not take _this_ kidnapping so easily as the last one. Harry and the Kingsman don't know where to start looking for Eggsy, but they find themselves with an unexpected - and very reluctant - ally.

Eggsy wakes up to the smell of fear and hopes Dean isn't going to smack him around again – his ears are still ringing from the clout he'd given him last night. It's not like Eggsy's actually done anything to earn his stepfather's ire, except that he's alive and he's proof that his mum once had someone better in her life.

At least it's quiet in the tiny cottage and Eggsy can't even pick up the faintest traces of Dean's beta scent. His mum is nearby, though. But someone else is missing and Eggsy tries to think around the ringing in his head. All he gets is an image of white flowers and then it hits him. _Daisy_.

He can't scent Daisy, not her baby odor nor the faint traces of Alpha that she emits, even as an infant. 

Has Dean done something to her? Eggsy starts to panic, but panic won't help and Eggsy takes a few deep breaths to calm himself.

Which doesn't help. The slightly clearer head makes Eggsy realize he's sitting in a hard chair, his hands are tied behind his back and his head is covered by a sack of some kind. And even worse, there's the scent of a grown Alpha nearby. It's foul, like the odor of a privy pot left to sit in the sun.

And that triggers Eggsy's return to reality. Dean hadn't been the one who hit him; after all, his stepfather has been dead a long time. No, he and Merlin had been assaulted by an Alpha as they'd been returning to the house from the stables at Richmond. Merlin had taken Eggsy to see the gift Harry had given him – a small, silly puppy that Eggsy had immediately fallen in love with. Eggsy had been begging Merlin to let him take the puppy into the house, and Merlin had been on the verge of giving in when Eggsy had been overwhelmed by the stench of shit. Merlin had gone down and before Eggsy could pull the knife Harry had given him to defend himself, he'd been coshed on the back of the head and everything went dark.

The scent of the Alpha who'd attacked them, who'd tied him up, isn't at all unfamiliar to Eggsy. It's the foul aroma of Old Stinkbottom himself, Chester King. In a tiny corner of Eggsy's brain, there's a small Omega boy jumping up and down and shouting "I told you so" to Merlin and Harry and Lord Roxy, who'd insisted he'd be safer in Richmond. 

Even tied up and blindfolded, Eggsy isn't at all afraid of Chester King. The man might have gotten the jump on him and Merlin, but only because they'd let down their guard. Chester is soft and old and about as dangerous as a three-day old kitten. Once he's free, Eggsy plans on picking Chester up and dumping him head-first into the nearest privy, if just so the smell from the top matches that from his lordship's stinky bottom.

But it's the presence of his mum's scent - sour and bitter with pain and fear - that is making Eggsy worried. His mum should be back in Morton Crescent, taking care of Daisy. Maybe she is, maybe Chester's taken some of his mum's clothes and is trying to convince Eggsy that he has her here, wherever _here_ might be.

But those hopes are dashed when a small hand squeezes Eggsy's knee and a soft, familiar voice whispers, _"I know you're awake, but Lord Chester doesn't. You gotta pretend, all right?"_

Eggsy forces himself to stay still, even when he hears Chester hurl abuse at his mother, telling her to go stand in the corner. But it becomes too much when he smells Chester up close and personal and he gags just a bit. 

"Wake up." Chester shakes him.

Eggsy jerks and makes some incoherent noises. "Wha? What's going on?" He struggles against the ropes binding his wrists. "Where am I?"

Chester pulls the covering off of Eggsy's head and Eggsy blinks, pretending to be disoriented. "Huh? Wha? Where am i?"

Chester is standing before him, hands on his hips, looking like a smug bastard. "Ah, Miss Unwin. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Mindful of his mum's urgent advice, Eggsy continues to pretend confusion and compliance. "Lord Chester? What's happened?"

Even though the light is dim, Eggsy can read the expressions that cross the Alpha's face. "I've rescued you."

Eggsy keeps his mouth shut and tries to process Chester's logic. 

"A little gratitude might be nice, Miss Unwin."

Eggsy gives up and decides to play dumb. "Um, thank you?"

"That's better." Chester paces, pausing every so often to stare at Eggsy. Finally, Chester deigns to speak. "I've rescued you from a fate worse than death. From that horrid demon of an Alpha, Harry Hart. He is planning on putting you to work in one of his dreadful brothels."

Eggsy twists around in his seat, looking for his mum. She's not that far away, and to Eggsy's shock, her wrists are shackled.

Chester adds, as if Eggsy is blind, "I've even brought your mother along, to care for you. To give you solace in case you've been … injured."

Eggsy feels a terrible rage building in him, but he can't risk drawing Chester's ire right now. He licks his lips and manages to say, "Thank you again, Lord Chester. Your kindness and consideration is appreciated, my lord."

Chester nods, lapping up Eggsy's praise.

"Maybe you could untie me?" Eggsy asks, his tone one of supplication.

Chester stares at him, his eyes narrowing. "No, no. I won't untie you, Miss Unwin. I can't take the chance that you'll harm yourself or your lovely mother. You have been through quite an ordeal, one that must have taken a toll on your fragile sensibilities. It's best that I keep you this way so you don't hurt yourself."

Eggsy's stymied. Chester did a decent job of tying him up and he can't make any obvious attempts to free himself.

Without a word, Chester turns and leaves Eggsy and his mother in the small cell they're in, locking the door behind him. But they're not alone. Chester's left a guard behind, someone that Eggsy doesn't recognize. The man has a pair of pistols on his belt, keeping company with a long knife - the same knife that Harry had given to him before he'd left The Black Hart.

As soon as Old Stinkbottom's footsteps fade, Michelle rushes over to Eggsy, her chains clanking. "Oh, babe. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, mum. Other than the headache from where that bastard coshed me, I'm fine. What's going on?"

Michelle glances over at the guard, who seems indifferent to their conversation. "I got your letter - the one you sent after you'd been - " Michelle lowers her voice, "kidnapped by Lord Hart."

"You don't believe what Chester's said about him, do you?"

"I don't believe a word that comes out of that filthy excuse for an Alpha's mouth. Is it true? Did Lord Hart kidnap you to save you from Lord Charlie?"

Eggsy nods. "And he has been courting me." The bindings are too tight to tell, but Eggsy fears that Chester has taken his courting bracelet. "And I've accepted his courtship. He hasn't formally asked for my hand in marriage - he's been waiting until he can talk to you first, get your approval."

Despite the exhaustion that cloud's Michelle's face, she's lights up at that news. "Oh my days, my Eggsy - a noble's wife. You'll never have to worry about anything ever again."

Eggsy isn't so sure about that. Being the wife of the head of Kingman seems like it comes with a lot of responsibilities. But that's not for his mum to worry about. 

"I have to ask, have you seen Lord Roxanne?"

Eggsy isn't going to tell his mum about what Roxy had interrupted or about the duel. "Yeah, mum. She found me - even though I didn't need saving. She said you'd been worried - that you didn't get any of my letters."

"No, babe. I didn't. You always write when you get to Portsmouth, and I knew you'd write when you were on the road and that's why I told Lord Roxanne I was worried about you. I really didn't think she'd disappear and go try to find you, but I'm glad she did."

"I wonder what happened to them. It's not like the post-mistress to let letters go astray."

"I think that Master Andrew intercepted them." Michelle bites her lip, unaccustomed to criticizing an upper servant. "Master Dagonet gave me the last letter you wrote and I was right relieved to hear from you. But then then a few days later, Lord Chester got a letter that sent him into an utter rage. He was saying terrible things, that he'd burn the manor down before he'd let Lord Roxanne have it. That he'd kill her if she'd harmed a hair on Lord Charlie's head. Or that he'd kill her anyway. She wouldn't be getting Morton Crescent from him, ever."

Eggsy's not surprised about that. Old Stinkbottom has always made it clear that he's not going anywhere, even if Lord Roxy marries. 

"Do you know what happened, babe?"

Eggsy nods. "Charlie tried to kill Lord Harry because Lord Harry owns a lot of Charlie's gambling debts. But Charlie's as bad a shot as he is a gambler and only managed to wing Lord Harry." Eggsy shivers as he remembers seeing Harry collapse onto the ground, his shirtsleeve red with blood. Lord Harry's friends managed to capture Charlie, and they're holding him until Stinkbottom agrees to to Lord Roxy's terms."

"I think that's why he took you, Eggsy. He kept muttering about using Lord Hart's whore as leverage." Michelle bites her lip and apologizes. "It's what Lord Chester said, not what I think."

"It's all right, mum. He's not the kind of person who would understand love and honor and respect." Eggsy sighs. "Why are you here? Why does he have you chained up? He has tried anything funny, has he?"

Michelle's jaw turns to iron. "That son of a bitch grabbed me and knocked me out. When I came to, I was wearing these and tied up next to the coachman. Spent nearly a week on that coach, freezing my arse off. I don't know why he wants me here, but it certainly isn't to give you comfort. Lord Chester is insane. I think he plans to kill us all."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

To his own aggravation, Merlin is far too injured to travel or be left alone. So instead of everyone piling into coaches and heading over to The Black Hart, Bedivere, who'd stayed at Harry's townhouse all day, rushes over to The Black Hart by himself to fetch Harry. While they had wait for Harry, Lucius sends a footman to bring Doctor Adams back to the house to treat Merlin's wounds, making Merlin that much more aggravated. He needs to be out searching for Eggsy before that bastard, Chester King, hurts him. Instead, he's sitting very still while the leech, Adams, sews him up.

Harry, who'd arrived at the same time as the doctor, is now pacing back and forth like a lion at the Royal Zoo. "How the hell did I not see this happening? That Chester would track Eggsy to Richmond."

As Adams ties off the last stitch, Merlin responds. "The kitling had probably written to his mother at some point. It's not beyond reason to suspect that Chester had intercepted the letter." 

"I'm going to kill him if he's hurt Eggsy." Harry shakes his head and corrects himself. "No, I'm going to kill him regardless. Slowly and painfully. How dare he – "

Morton cuts Harry off. "He's mine, Hart. Not only for what he's done now, but for all the grief he's caused me before this. And I'm the one responsible for bringing him here."

Merlin expects Harry to argue, but to his surprise, all he says is, "I'll hold him down while you gut him. I understand you have some experience with cutting open Alphas who've wronged you."

"That's very gracious of you, my lord."

When Harry smiles, Merlin – and likely everyone else in the room – gets a chill. "Oh, not at all. I plan to manage your butchery – are you willing to take direction from me on this?"

Morton's smile is just as chilling. "I would be honored."

Merlin reminds them, "But none of this matters unless we find Chester." He looks at Morton. "Do you have any idea where your uncle might have taken Eggsy?"

Morton frowns and shakes her head. "I wish I did. Chester hasn't left Morton Crescent once since he assumed the trusteeship. He sent me off to Earl Hesketh, expending little effort or interest in my introduction to Society." Then Morton adds, "except to tell his sister that I'm to be kept away from any eligible or worthy Omegas."

Merlin doesn't miss the fleeting looks that Morton (and he really needs to think of her as Lancelot) exchanges with Tristan.

Harry says, "Adamelia – I wonder if she knows where Chester might be?"

"Could she be part of this?" Merlin's met the Earl Hesketh a few times in passing and has never formed a favorable impression of her.

Morton offers, "She could be – she'd always fawned on Charlie. Made him her heir. But Charlie now says she's disinherited him, she won't pay his bills. I could also add that she bears no love for me. My time under her roof was intolerable."

"Adamelia has always been someone who's been deeply disappointed by life. I'd say that there must be a broken heart, but that feels too much like a cliché. " Harry looks over at Morton, Tristan and Bedivere. "I've sent out all of the Kingsman agents in London to find Chester and Eggsy. All except for you three, who'll be my backup when I rescue Eggsy." 

Merlin interrupts. "Excuse me, Harry, but it's my job to have yer back."

"You're hurt, my friend. I'm not going to risk you, too."

Merlin's gets up, prepared to argue until he's blue in the face, but it seems that Chester's done him some real harm and he crashes back down as the room spins.

"Merlin?" Harry's now the one in his face. "Are you all right?"

"No, but I will be."

Doctor Adams, who hasn't left the room, adds. "He needs bedrest, not mayhem and murder. Give it a few days and he'll be as right as rain. Send him roaming around London looking for Chester King will result in nothing but grief." The doctor picks up his bag. "And on that note, I bid you good evening."

The silence that follows the doctor's departure is uncomfortable. Merlin declares, "I'm not going to lounge around in a bed, not while Eggsy's in danger."

Thankfully Harry understands. "We'll run this like any other operation; you'll manage the flow of information as it comes in." Harry's in full Arthur mode, adding "I expect that we'll be getting reports from our agents soon. But in the meantime, if you'll excuse me for a moment."

To everyone but Merlin's shock, Harry abruptly leaves the room.

Merlin knows that Harry needs to deal with what's happened to Eggsy in his own way, and right now, there is simply nothing Harry - or anyone - can do, except wait for Kingsman agents to find Chester and Eggsy or for Chester to issue some kind of demand. Merlin spends the next hour organizing assets, calling in favors, even sending for Counsellor Gideon, who he hopes has access to resources beyond the reach of Kingsman. About an hour later, as the clock chimes eleven, there's a bit of chaos at the front door and for a brief moment, everyone in the room thinks it's Eggsy. Merlin heads out to the foyer, along with Morton. And they are both disappointed. The newcomer is Kilderry, who'd heard about the attack from Mistress Olwyn. 

Gwen offers her assistance, "What can I do?" 

Merlin asks, "Would you know where Chester might have taken Eggsy?"

"No, and I've been wracking my brain since I heard what that bastard did. But I think I know someone who might."

"Who?"

"Adamelia. She and Chester aren't close."

Merlin sees a great big hole in that statement. "And if they're not close, how would she know where he is? And if she does, why would she help us?"

Gwen sighs and looks over to her grandcub with an ambiguous expression on her face. "When I say that Chester and Adamelia aren't close, I mean that while she's occasionally fallen in with his schemes, she actively despises her brother."

"Why?"

"Chester wooed Cressida Morton out from under Adamelia's nose."

Morton is startled, "My aunt?"

Gwen nods in confirmation. "Adamelia had been quite infatuated with the girl. I dare say she thought she loved her. Which is the only reason why Chester wooed Cressida in the first place. I suspect that the connection to Cressida is why Adamelia had named Charlie as her heir."

Merlin laughs, not because it's funny. "Just a few hours ago, Harry had suggested that Adamelia had suffered from a broken heart, but discarded the notion as being too much of a cliché."

Gwen, a font of common sense, notes, "Well, clichés are just that because they do happen all too frequently." The duke looks around the room. "Where is Harry?"

"He needed a moment to compose himself."

Gwen frowns and shakes her head. "Harry's always been a sensitive lad. Too much sp, I would think. But he needs to pull himself together."

Morton doesn't particularly care for this assessment, and snaps at her grandsire. "His intended has been kidnapped; I think Harry deserves a little breathing room and a chance to come to grips with that."

Merlin's delighted at Morton's partisanship, especially against a member of her own family. But now's not the time to celebrate such independence. "Let me go talk to Harry."

"Tell him we need to pay a call on Adamelia - and the sooner the better."

"Tonight?" Merlin is skeptical that they'll be able to gain entrance to the Earl's house.

"Adamelia is not one to go to bed early. And she'll see me."

Morton raises an eyebrow at that, "You seem to know quite a bit about her personal habits, Grandsire."

Gwen smiles tightly. "We had been friends, once - a very long time ago. But our lives took different paths. Adamelia became very rigid in her thinking, and when she'd lost Cressida to Chester, she turned into a completely different person. And I had my own issues to deal with."

Morton looks like she's about to say something, there's a storm brewing in her eyes. Merlin doesn't need a tempest between these two and cuts her off. "Lancelot, would you do me a favor and have Lucius send for Lord Hart's black coach. It will be best to travel incognito tonight."

Morton knows that Merlin's getting her out of the way and she departs with ill grace.

Gwen, on the other hand, looks like she's about to accompany him on his quest to check on Harry, which Merlin isn't having. "Go back to the parlor and bedevil Tristan and Bedivere. I don't need ye bullying Harry." The Duke looks like she's about to object, but Merlin stares her down. She heads towards the parlor and Merlin goes up to Harry's library.

He finds his friend staring out into the darkness.

"Kilderry's arrived. She thinks we might be able to get some answers out of Chester's sister." Merlin fills Harry in with the information Gwen had provided. "So, there's no love lost between them. Kilderry suggests going to see Earl Hesketh now. Tonight."

Harry nods but doesn't move.

"We'll get him back. We're Kingsman, and Chester is one opium-addled old man."

"I feel like I've used up all of the good will the universe has for me."

"Harry – "

"I love him, Merlin. It's not just the desire to take a mate, it's not that I find him pleasing. I love Eggsy." Harry shakes his head a little. "I can't describe the way he makes me feel. How happy I am. How much joy I have at the thought of spending the rest of my life with him. And yet, all I've brought him has been pain and anguish. Everything I've done has put Eggsy into harm's way."

Merlin can't disagree with that. But he can give Harry some solace. "Let's go bedevil Adamelia. I bet she knows where Chester's gone to ground." He picks up one of Harry's daggers and hands it to him. "You and Lancelot can carve him into bits after we've got your bride back."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"For the last time, I don't know where Chester is." Adamelia King hisses at them.

Harry draws a knife. "That's a pity, since I'm quite prepared to use this on you. 

"You wouldn't dare!" Adamelia draws back, like a snake ready to strike.

Harry hopes she does, he's in the mood to draw blood. Lots of it. "I would. I have no compunction about cutting you to bits and rolling you up in this lovely carpet." To add insult to injury, Harry scuffs his boot against the fine cream Aubusson rug, leaving a dirty streak. "Oh, how ungentlemanly of me. My apologies."

Gwen actually snorts and both Merlin and Lancelot roll their eyes.

"If I knew where that rat bastard was, I'd tell you. I haven't seen him in years. Not since I went down to that godforsaken pile in Cornwall seven years ago."

Lancelot growls, "Excuse me, but that's my home you're talking about." 

"In a savage, godforsaken part of England - it's so far from London, it might as well be Scotland. Or worse, Ireland."

Harry's not sure if Adamelia deliberately just insulted everyone in the room - she's never struck him as that swift. A question to contemplate on another, less fraught, day. "Has your nephew said anything about his father's associates? Any business dealings?"

Adamelia shakes her head. "No, the only thing that Charles talks about with me is his constant need for funds to satisfy his gambling debts and pay off the whores he's impregnated. I'd finally told him enough - I'm not bankrupting my estates to support his nasty habits. When I saw him a few weeks ago, I told him that I've rewritten my will. He'll inherit the title, but nothing else. My estates are unentailed, and I'll leave those to someone who won't destroy them within a year."

Harry's about to leave when something occurs to him. "Why did you visit Morton Crescent? If there's no love lost between you and your brother, why make such a long trip to see him?"

"I had my reasons." Adamelia's expression is both mulish and sad.

Morton, who still clearly despises her aunt, says, "I remember you spent a lot of time at the family crypt. You'd asked me if there were any roses still blooming in the garden. I took you there and we cut the last ones and took them back to the cemetery. I think that had been the only time you've ever been civil towards me." 

"It had been the fifth anniversary of Cressida's passing. I wanted to pay my respects. He killed her, you know."

Harry is confused. "Who?"

"Chester. He killed her. Not with a gun or a knife, but with his poisonous words, his uncaring and greedy soul. Cressida had given him what he wanted - an Alpha son, who'd inherit everything, or so he thought. And once she did her duty, he had no use for her anymore. He even had her locked away for a while, but Percival Morton had put his foot down and told him that he'd kill Chester if he didn't bring Cressida home. She was never the same after that." Adamelia reaches out and touches Lancelot's cheek. "You have the look of her - your jaw, your coloring. Maybe that's why I have always been so cruel to you, you always reminded me of all of my failures."

Lancelot, to her credit, doesn't pull away, but Harry can read the slight revulsion in her eyes.

"I am sorry for your loss, Adamelia, and I am sorry that you could not assist us. We will leave you be." Harry nods his head in a gesture of very small respect.

The four Kingsman turn as one, but before they can leave, Adamelia stops them. "A few months ago, Chester tried to wheedle some money from me, an investment in a merchant ship from China. He even gave me the bona fides for the company. I'd taken a look but decided against it. I won't invest in the opium trade. Chester might have taken Eggsy there. I don't recall the exact address, but the company's offices had been in a warehouse in Rotherhite."

Merlin asks, "Do ye remember the name of the company?"

"No. Just that it was in a warehouse on the docks in Rotherhite. That's it."

Harry doesn't think this will amount to anything, but he's still gracious. "Thank you. I appreciate the assistance."

With that, they pile back in the coach for the short trip back to Harry's house. Harry ignores his companions and gazes out into the darkness, summoning memories of Eggsy over the last ten days. His intended had fussed about about not being allowed to stay with Harry in the Mayfair mansion.

_"You can't be afraid for my reputation - I'm no one. And there isn't a soul in London outside of you and your friends - Kingsman - who even know my name."_

_"But you will be someone - you'll be my marchioness - and I won't have the world whispering that I took advantage of you."_

_"But what if I want you to?"_ Eggsy had be a combination of boldness and shyness that Harry found utterly irresistible.

_"I don't fancy another duel. Lancelot might be satisfied, but I think Bedivere would fight for your honor. And probably Merlin. And Tristan. And Gwen would have my nuts. And don't even suggest that you could stay with me without any repercussions, because I'm about at the end of my self-control. If we spend the night in the same house, I am going to claim you. Proprieties be damned."_

Eggsy's scent had changed when Harry had finished that extraordinary speech, turning richer, deeper, and if possible, more alluring. It had taken the absolute limits of Harry's self-control not to reach for Eggsy and pull him into his lap, not to undo Eggsy's buttons and ribbons and slide his hand under Eggsy's clothing and stroke that warm, silken flesh.

It hadn't helped that Eggsy's pout was as alluring as his scent, and for both of their sakes, Harry personally escorted Eggsy into the the care of two of Tilde's most trusted "associates" - Tommy and Betty - with the command not to let Eggsy out of their sight. A hefty purse to each had ensured their cooperation. Harry hadn't doubted that the pair would do their best to educate Eggsy - at least up to a point. When Harry had dined with Eggsy each night, Eggsy had no compunction about telling him just what the pair had taught him.

Now, Harry wishes with all his soul that he'd let proprieties be damned. He fears the worst - that Eggsy is dead, his body dumped in the river, lost to Harry forever.

"We're home, Harry." Merlin interrupt his dark and desperate thoughts. 

Harry is the last to exit the coach, the last to climb the steps into a fully lit house, the last to realize that there's one more person under his roof. Someone who hadn't been there when he'd left a little more than a hour ago.

Michelle Unwin, and she's holding the courting bracelet Harry had given to Eggsy.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	18. The Warehouse

Roxy recognizes Michelle Unwin the fastest – she ought to; she’s the lord of the manor in which Michelle has been serving for the past few years – and is across the room and at her side in an instant. “Michelle!” she cries. Behind her, the others pile into the room. She barely registers them, though, focusing immediately on what Michelle holds. Any hope that Michelle had merely eavesdropped on Chester, discovered his nefarious plans, and arrived independently promptly goes up in smoke. Roxy takes a prudent step backwards. “Michelle,” she repeats, more gently this time, but with the commanding note in her voice that her parents had taught her from the cradle. “How came you by Eggsy’s courting bracelet?”

Michelle holds it out in trembling fingers. “Lord King has him,” she whispers. “He brought me from Morton Crescent to – to act as his intermediary.”

Harry Hart comes past Roxy to take the bracelet from Michelle. He fingers it almost disbelievingly, staring down at it as if he’s never seen its like before. Then he puts it carefully in his pocket and turns his attention back to Michelle.

“Please tell me Eggsy didn’t give it up willingly,” Harry says to Michelle, quiet.

Michelle shakes her head. “Chester cut it off his wrist while Eggsy was still unconscious.” Then her hands fly to her mouth as she realizes what she’s said. “He’s well,” she hurries on. “He is. He was awake this morning and has all his wits, I’ll swear it.”

“Peace,” Kilderry says, giving Harry a settling look. Harry subsides, and Kilderry turns to favor Michelle with a smile. Michelle smiles back, almost reflexively. “King will have sent you with a message,” Kilderry says. “Speak it.”

“Lord Chester wants Lord Charles back,” Michelle says. “He says he’ll exchange Eggsy for him.”

“Where, when, how?”

“Tonight, at a warehouse by the docks – if you accept, I’m to go back to him, tell him so, and then he’ll send you directions back. But Lord Morton,” she turns to Roxy, “Lord Chester – he doesn’t mean it. He says he just wants to make the exchange and everyone goes home, but I don’t think he does. I think he means to kill you.”

“Thank you, Michelle, I had guessed something of the sort,” Roxy says grimly. Tristan gives Roxy a worried look, and Roxy shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve shown that I won’t sit quietly by and let Chester live off my estates any more,” she explains. “That genie can’t go back in its bottle. Chester’s only let me live this long for two reasons. One is that he feared my sire’s military connections – ” she smiles at Tristan. “With good reason, it seems. The other is that he thought he had me well enough under control, and so there was no need to run the risks of getting rid of me. But he no longer has me under control.”

“And Charlie?” That’s Merlin asking.

“Beg pardon, m’lord?” Michelle is looking at him in surprise. Roxy guesses that Michelle had put Merlin down as a senior servant, perhaps Harry’s gentleman; Merlin speaking up in this company proves that she’s misjudged him.

“Charlie,” Merlin repeats, patient. “Is Chester willing to risk him?”

“He came to kidnap Eggsy for him,” Roxy observes.

“Is that why he kidnapped Eggsy?” Tristan shakes her head. “You just said it, Roxy: Chester no longer has you under control. I’d say this is about you at least as much as it is about Charlie.”

“Charlie is his heir,” Roxy protests. “His cub! Of course he cares about him.”

“Charlie is Earl Hesketh’s heir,” Kilderry says slowly. “And he was born from an Omega that Chester stole from her… I’d say that the situation is muddled at best. Chester may not have the ordinary feelings one would expect a sire to have towards their cub.”

“And – ” Michelle starts, then stops herself.

Bedivere springs into action, pulling out a chair. “Please, Madame, be seated. That’s right.” He encourages Michelle to take the chair, and she relaxes somewhat. “There you are.” He pats her hand. “Can you finish that sentence, please?”

“Isn’t it true…” Michelle falters under the gaze of the room. Roxy moves slightly, drawing her attention and giving her an encouraging look. Taking courage, Michelle says, “Isn’t it true that opium dulls the feelings?”

Roxy hisses involuntarily. “Opium?” she demands, hardly caring how her voice sounds strangled. “He was eating it himself? Not just selling it?”

“You didn’t know?” Harry sounds honestly surprised.

 _How could I have known?_ Roxy wants to ask. Shame ties her tongue. She _should_ have known: not because it would have been easy or natural to discover, but because it had been something her uncle, her guardian, had been doing on her estate, and probably funding with her estate’s income. She’d known about the clothes and the wine and the rich foods, more publicly acceptable extravagances, after all. Why had she never dug farther? Probably for the same reason that she had never really tried to stop those extravagances, either. She had accepted them as the way of the world and simply worked around them. In retrospect, Roxy can’t understand her own complacency. But it had been so natural at the time.

Tristan puts a hand on Roxy’s shoulder. “He’s been addicted for years.”

“And to answer yer question,” Merlin says to Michelle, “it can. Yes.”

“I think he’s gone insane,” Michelle says quietly. “I don’t know if he cares about Lord – about Mister Charles or not. But he’d certainly kill any of the rest of us if he thinks it will get him what he wants.”

Bedivere pats Michelle’s hand again. “I promise you that won’t happen,” he says. “We are more than a match for Chester King.”

“And Eggsy?” Michelle is tearing up with worry.

“I’ve been teaching the kitling a thing or three about self-defense,” Merlin tells her.

“And it won’t be the first time we’ve gotten someone out of a sticky situation,” Tristan adds. Roxy thinks Tristan’s toothy grin somewhat detracts from the attempt at reassurance. But Michelle sits up the straighter for hearing it.

“If you’re half as good as my Lee was, I shan’t worry,” she says with quiet determination. Michelle looks each of them in the eye in turn, shedding, for the moment, the quiet deference she’s practiced as a servant for the past years. The mention of Lee Unwin seems to have turned the clock back to a time when Michelle had been a young Omega of respectable birth, mated to a young Alpha with a bright future.

Roxy’s not the only one feeling the wistful sense of days gone by. Bedivere is looking at Michelle as if he’s looking back in time. He’s not seeing not the mature Omega with two birth-stones in her ears, crow’s-feet gathering around her eyes, and wearing the sober clothing of a senior servant. Roxy knows just from the look in Bedivere’s eyes that he’s seeing a young, girlish face, maiden-jewels, and the kind of frock that the respectable offspring of a Cornish preacher might have worn to a local ball. The kind being given in honor of a local militia regiment – among which certain members of Kingsman had been mingled. Members of Kingsman, and their squires.

She knows, for nearly everyone has told her so, that once Michelle Tremaryn and Leon Unwin had laid eyes on each other, neither of them had had eyes for anyone else ever again. She further knows – this time because Tristan had told her in confidence – that Bedivere had been equally smitten with Michelle, but had never had a chance. Until, perhaps, now.

Well.

Harry’s thoughts are apparently running along entirely different lines. “The warehouse Chester mentions,” he says. “Is Eggsy there already, or is he to be brought there for the exchange?”

“I think he must be there already,” Michelle says. “The place stank of opium, and I could hear the Thames whenever they opened the door.”

“You don’t know where it is?” Bedivere asks Michelle.

She shakes her head. “I was blindfolded,” she says. “Chester had one of his toughs drive me a ways before dropping me off to come here. If I knew London better, I might be able to tell you something, but – ”

“No one blames you,” Bedivere soothes her.

“It must be the same one Earl Hesketh spoke of,” Kilderry says.

“On the docks in Rotherhite,” Merlin recalls.

“Adamilia also mentioned opium,” Roxy says grimly. “That Chester had wanted her to invest in opium shipping.”

“We need to find this warehouse,” Harry says. He merely straightens his spine and squares his shoulders, and immediately the attention of everyone in the room – even Michelle – is on him. “Merlin – the building. Does King own the warehouse? Rent it? Is it through a shell company? Gideon can get you the paperwork. Tristan, Bedivere, Lancelot – get to Rotherhite. See if you can identify it from street gossip.”

“There’s often an opium den near a warehouse like that,” Tristan says. “We’ll find it.”

“Allow me to preempt you,” Kilderry says to Harry. “I shall visit my club at once. If King approached Hesketh about investing in his venture, he doubtless approached others of his cronies. If the gossip is there to find, I will find it.”

“I will do the same at the Black Hart,” Harry agrees. “Thank you, Gwen.”

“No need for that.” Kilderry shakes her head. “One doesn’t find an Omega like that Eggsy every day. I should know – I was lucky enough to meet one myself, once upon a time.”

“Excuse me, m’lord,” Michelle says, breaking into this moment. “What shall I do?”

Harry turns to her. “You followed the drum for a time while Lee was Percival’s squire,” he says slowly. “Before Eggsy. You had bravery and resourcefulness. Will you put them to use again?”

Michelle tips up her chin. “Of course.”

“Arthur – ” Bedivere begins. Harry holds up his hand, stopping him, though Bedivere subsides only reluctantly.

“Then what I want you to do is go back to King and stall. Make up anything you like. Tell him I wasn’t at home. Tell him I was in an alcoholic stupor and threw you out of the house. That I couldn’t make any decisions until I’d spoken to Lord Morton. Or that you found Lord Morton and _she_ refused to make any decisions until she’d spoken to me. Whatever you think he will believe. I don’t care what you say about me – smear my character, if that’s what King wants to hear. Do you understand? When you think you can’t delay any longer, agree to come back here, if he’ll let you go. But above all, play for time. The longer you can delay him, the better we’ll be able to turn the tables on him.”

Michelle nods. “I understand.”

“You can’t let her go back into that,” Bedivere says hotly. “Didn’t you hear what she said? King is insane! If she comes back without an answer, what’s to stop King from killing her for uselessness – or out of simple rage?”

Harry starts to speak, but Michelle beats him to it. She turns in her chair and puts her hand on Bedivere’s forearm. He’d been clutching the side of Michelle’s chair, the tendons standing out from the strain. Under her touch Bedivere abruptly relaxes, turning towards her like a flower towards the sun.

“My resourcefulness will stop him,” Michelle tells him. “Didn’t you just hear Lord Hart and I discussing that?”

“And what if he attacks you?” Bedivere touches her cheek. Roxy, watching, swallows hard. Just so had Percival always looked at James. “What if you have to flee to save your own life, and leave Eggsy behind?”

“Then I will have to use my bravery,” Michelle says. She rises from her chair. “With your permission, Lord Hart, I’ll go at once.”

“No, stay a while,” Harry says. “How long were you waiting here for us?”

“Perhaps forty-five minutes.”

“You can believably stay a few more hours without arousing King’s suspicions.” Harry looks around the room. “The rest of us must go, but – ”

“Tristan and I can handle Rotherhite,” Roxy says.

“It will go faster with three,” Harry begins.

Roxy can see his worry for Eggsy in every line of his body, but holds firm. “Three agents tire faster than two. Let Bedivere rest now, and he’ll be fresh when Tristan or I must rest later.”

“She’s right,” Merlin says. “If we burn ourselves out now, we’ll have naught left for breaking Eggsy out of that warehouse. And I think we all know it’s going to call for that.”

“Aye,” Kilderry agrees, a rare trace of accent slipping into her cultured voice.

“All right,” Harry surrenders. “Bedivere may remain. Tristan, Lancelot – ”

“We’re already on our way,” Tristan says. “Good hunting, knights.”

“Good hunting,” everyone choruses, and the Kingsmen disperse, out into the night, on the hunt for justice.

* * *

In the end, Harry’s preparations and foresight are overkill. Chester King is no spymaster. It isn’t difficult to locate the warehouse. It would only be difficult to say who discovers the warehouse _first_. Roxy thinks she and Tristan win by default, as they are the ones who stand before it after mere hours of coins tossed to urchins and cups of bad ale at seedy taverns. The barest intimation that they might enjoy a pipe is met with competing offers to bring them to the best dens, in exchange for the merest tip, my lords, a gratuity only. It takes little more weeding before they discover which of the dens is run by the lord from out Cornwall way, the younger sibling of the Earl, who makes sure the drug is of high quality because he imbibes himself.

Once in possession of this information, Tristan and Roxy repair to an alleyway and have a heated debate about the merits of returning to report versus sneaking into the warehouse straight away, under the guise of reconnaissance. The discussion is rendered moot by the arrival of a panting urchin – or rather, a pageboy dressed as an urchin – who gasps out orders from Arthur for them to return at once, as he’s discovered the location – and, more relevantly, the blueprints – of Chester’s warehouse.

“Actually,” Arthur admits, “We all rather discovered it. I was on my way back here to share the news when Gwen picked me up in the Kilderry carriage and told _me_. Then when we both got back here, Merlin had the blueprints ready.”

“Thank goodness for British bureaucracy,” Bedivere says devoutly. Michelle had stayed to learn that the warehouse had been discovered before departing to stall Chester. Bedivere had been able to send her off with promises that rescue would be mere hours behind, which had improved his mood considerably. No doubt, Roxy thinks, it had improved Michelle’s, as well.

The blueprints are spread over the table in Harry’s study, and the Kingsmen gather around it. Arthur says, tracing the alleyways of Rotherhite, “I had originally intended to lull Chester into thinking the exchange was to take place. But having obtained this intelligence so quickly, I begin to change my plans.”

“Strike now,” Bedivere agrees. “Chester won’t be looking for us nearly so soon.”

“We still don’t know exactly where in the building the Unwins are being held,” Roxy cautions. She taps the blueprints. “Multiple stories, wide open spaces likely to be full of shipping crates. The place is a warren. We should see what’s actually inside before we attempt a rescue.”

“I don’t want to wait,” Bedivere says.

“I don’t either,” Arthur says.

“Which is exactly why ye shouldn’t go rushing in,” Merlin says. He gives Roxy an approving nod. “Never thought I’d see the day when one of yer knights were the voice of wisdom, Arthur.”

“This isn’t a game, Merlin,” Arthur hisses. “They’ve got _Eggsy_.”

Merlin just looks at him. Arthur subsides.

“My issue is that seeing what’s inside, short of going inside ourselves, is going to be very difficult.” Tristan frowns at the blueprints and shakes her head. “No windows. Few entrances and exits. No way to observe from the outside, and little chance of sneaking in undetected, at least during the day.”

“I’m not waiting till dark!” Arthur says hotly.

“If we get caught – ” Tristan starts.

“Charlie,” Roxy interrupts.

The argument comes to an abrupt halt. Four heads swivel to Roxy.

“Charlie?” Arthur repeats.

Roxy raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Charlie. My lazy, good-for-nothing cousin. The one who loves nothing better than spending all of my uncle’s money. The one who frequently travels to London without my uncle’s permission. I used to always wonder where he got the funds to do it.” She gestures to the table. “I think I know now.”

“You think Charlie’s been inside,” Tristan says.

“I do,” Roxy says with a nod. “And – ” grinning at Arthur. “I think that our esteemed king will be able to get everything he knows out of him in very short order.”

“Well,” Arthur says after a moment. “I’ve been told one should always go into an operation with a clear head. I suppose it would be nice to work out some… aggression.”

* * *

The morning had been cold and clear, and Roxy had felt wide awake despite having stayed up all night. But as they leave the Black Hart to return to Rotherhite for the second time, a London fog begins to set in. By the time they abandon the carriage on the outskirts of the dock district and don cloaks to continue on foot, the gas-lamps have been lit. It’s barely an hour past noon, but Roxy’s hand is blurry before her face. Shapes appear out of the mist and disappear just as quickly.

“Perfect weather for this,” Tristan murmurs. “It’s as if we ordered it bespoke.”

“Mind your noise,” Merlin says. They all nod, knowing well how voices carry even more than usual in the gloom.

Charlie had folded easily, to Roxy’s lack of surprise and Harry’s visible disappointment. “Shameful,” he’d muttered to himself for a full hour after Charlie had screamed and babbled and spilled his guts, in both the literal and figurative sense. “Disgusting.”

There had been some debate about Charlie’s fate after they’d wrung him dry. Originally Arthur had been in favor of leaving him at the Black Hart, a piece in reserve in case today’s expedition were not a total success. But the difficulty of bringing him along, in what would theoretically be broad daylight, had been no small part in that choice; and when a check of the weather had revealed the first tendrils of the fog rolling in, the decision had been reversed. Now Charlie stumbles along at the rear, Bedivere’s knife nestled snugly against his ribs, hands bound behind his back and a gag lodged firmly in his mouth. If all goes according to plan, the two of them will remain safely outside the warehouse while the remaining Kingsman effect a rescue. Then they will all disappear into the day-turned-night, leaving Chester back in the same untenable position in which he’d begun, with the added threat of having his kidnapping revealed if he doesn’t bend to Roxy’s demands. If all does not go according to plan…

“Kingsman are good at improvising,” Tristan had told Roxy, when Roxy had expressed this worry.

Arthur stops them with a raised hand a block before the warehouse. He looks around at each of them in turn as they huddle close enough to be seen. He doesn’t speak: his gaze is enough. In turn, each of them nod.

 _Go_ , Arthur signals.

The warehouse has two main entrances – one for freight, on the wharf in the rear, and one for humans, off the street on the front. Roxy and Tristan are detailed for the former, while Merlin and Arthur take the latter. There is a single window possibly large enough to admit a grown human. Bedivere takes up position in the alleyway outside it, one hand firmly holding a muffled protesting Charlie.

Roxy draws her pistol. So does Tristan. Together they creep into the warehouse.

 _Loading space in the back_ , Roxy recalls, creeping through it on silent feat. _The legal shipments go up front, the illegal ones in the side room._ Her dear uncle hasn’t confined himself to merely the distasteful business of drug trafficking: he’s also engaged in smuggling. _That’s likely where Eggsy and Michelle are. We take the rooms on the right…_

Tristan opens the first door, Roxy covering her. Nothing. Well, nothing of interest to them. Roxy might have been outraged once upon a time. Now she backs up so Tristan can exit and they move on.

The next two doors are the same. They switch then, Roxy opening the doors and Tristan covering her. Her hand is inches from the cheap wood when she stills, every muscle straining.

Tristan hears it, too. “There!” she hisses, taking off. Roxy follows, heart beginning to pound.

“Uncle!” Roxy cries.

Chester is standing there, pistol out – pointed at Harry, who is poised protectively in front of Eggsy. Eggsy is crouched down, bent over a crumpled pile of clothes. A second glance shows Roxy that the heap is actually Michelle Unwin. Merlin is nowhere to be seen. Chester turns his head and sees her, sneering.

“You,” he hisses. “I should have drowned you in the well a decade ago.”

“Your mistake,” she retorts. Her own pistol is in her hand, pointed at him – when had that happened? Roxy doesn’t lower it.

“One I won’t repeat.” His pistol swings towards her. She doesn’t wait: she fires.

It’s loud in the warehouse, echoing back. Redness blooms on Chester’s left shoulder. He hisses, reeling back – behind a cluster of boxes. Roxy swears.

“Come on!” Tristan calls, already giving chase. Roxy spares a glance at Eggsy and Arthur.

“Go,” Arthur orders. He’s already kneeling by Michelle, tugging off his cravat.

Roxy gives chase. The question of _where is Merlin_ is answered as she follows on Tristan’s heels out the front door and onto the streets of London: He’s sitting against the side of the building, one hand pressed to a bleeding wound on his leg. “It’s minor,” he gasps out to Tristan, who’s stopped and put her hands on top of his.

“The hell it is,” Tristan snaps. “Roxy – ”

“Stay with him.” She steps carefully past them, letting the fog swallow her up. 

Chester has the lead of her. On a bright day, Roxy would be able to see clear to the Thames from here; Chester could duck behind a building, perhaps, but not for long. But today even the gas-lights are blurred and dim. Roxy looks about frantically. Bursts into a run, then stops. What if she’s running in the wrong direction? She turns, but she isn’t even sure which way the warehouse lies.

There’s a shout. She turns, and it repeats itself. Now she recognizes the voice: Charlie.

Roxy runs towards the sound. It’s deceptive: she runs down the wrong alley twice. But then she spots a corner of brick-work she recognizes and goes down the _right_ alley. Here in the eddy the fog thins, enough to see Chester and Bedivere and Charlie, tense and staring in an odd tableau.

“Put down your pistol and I’ll release your heir to you,” Bedivere is saying calmly. Chester is pointing his pistol at them both. Bedivere still has a knife to Charlie’s ribs.

“What use is he?” Chester screams.

“Father!” Charlie’s gag has come out at some point. He looks terrified and disbelieving all at once.

“You’re nothing but a disappointment!” Chester bawls at him. “Too much of that bitch in you. I wanted a real heir, but all I got was a wastrel like you!” Something twists in his face. “I’d rather see the estate go back to those Mortons than pass to you.”

“Roxanne will never support you,” Bedivere says, trying to reason with Chester.

“So I’ll dump her in the well,” Chester spits. “I’ve been guardian to one Morton, I can be guardian to the next! At least the chit’s young enough to be trained up right!”

“Father, you don’t mean that,” Charlie pleads. “You always told me – ”

“Shut up!” The pistol swings abruptly. Even through the fog, the madness glitters visibly in Chester’s eyes. “God. Your whole life you’ve been babbling, babbling – what you deserve, what you’re owed – I’m so sick of your _bleating_.”

Charlie’s mouth drops open. His lips shape _Father_ , but he doesn’t speak.

“So sick of it,” Chester repeats, almost talking to himself sometimes. “Sick of you all. It’s time I did something about it. Time and past…”

“Chester,” Bedivere tries.

“Time to start over,” Chester says. He nods to himself, then looks Charlie square in the eyes. “I suppose you tried,” he allows graciously. “I’ll leave your picture hanging in the gallery.”

“Father,” Charlie whispers.

Chester shoots him.

Charlie falls. It’s not a clean shot – Chester may have been aiming for Charlie’s heart, but he hits rather to the side and a few inches below. The gurgling quality of Charlie’s breaths make it abundantly clear that Chester has hit his lung, instead.

The fog thickens. Charlie might be trying to talk. Might be trying to cry. It matters not. It takes only minutes for his breaths to turn from bubbling to choked to strangled. Then they fall silent.

“Now what?” Roxy whispers.

Chester turns to her. “Now I kill you too,” he says, as if it’s perfectly reasonable. He’s dropped the weapon he’d used to take Charlie’s life and drawn a replacement. Roxy’s holding her pistol on him as well, but he seems neither to notice nor care. “Then I tell everyone the tragic story of how you and Charlie fought a duel over the inheritance of Morton Crescent and each managed to kill the other. I get myself named as guardian for the next heir, and things start again.”

“The next heir is my cousin Hamish, out in County Clare,” Roxy says, trying to make him see. “He’s two years older than _I_ am. He doesn’t need a guardian.”

Chester laughs at her. “All those years you spent poring over your family books and genealogies, and you don’t even know who your nearest relation is. That’s been a source of amusement to me all these years. She was fetching and carrying under your nose and you didn’t even know.” He shakes his head. “It’s all for the better, really. You certainly couldn’t manage. You haven’t the faintest idea how an estate should be run.”

“Into the ground?”

“For the benefit of its rightful owners, of course.” Chester steps to the side. “Ah-ah,” he says to Bedivere, who had been trying to get closer to Chester. Bedivere stops. The Kingsman is still only holding his knife; Roxy doesn’t know what’s happened to the pistol he’d also carried, but Bedivere’s belt is empty.

“Bedivere, don’t,” Roxy says. “He’s mine.”

“No, no,” Chester says, avuncular and patient and altogether reasonable. “You’re mine. You, your life, your heritage and your inheritance – they’ve always been mine. They’ve always been _meant_ to be mine. That’s what I could never bring you to understand.” He raises the second pistol. “Now it’s too late.”

“For both of us,” Roxy whispers.

They fire at the same time.

“Roxy,” Bedivere gasps, ignoring the way Chester falls to the cobblestones, a hole between his eyes and an astonished look on his face. “Are you – ”

“Fine,” Roxy says, left ear still ringing with the sound the bullet had made when it had whizzed past her. She walks over to her uncle’s body and looks down at it, waiting to start caring. After a moment she turns away.

Charlie, she thinks she’ll weep for later. He’d been hateful, a whore-lover and a spendthrift, probably an opium-eater like his father, a cub in a grown Alpha’s body who had never learned that the rest of the world were any different than the wooden soldiers put in his toy-chest for his amusement. But no child can learn that difference without an adult to teach it to them. Roxy finds she can feel sorry for a cub who had never had any adult who had cared for them that much.

Bedivere grips Roxy’s arm, scanning her rapidly and nodding when he sees she’s truly uninjured. “The others?” he asks.

Fear, more real and genuine than the philosophical sorrow for a cub who’d never had a chance to grow, shoots down Roxy’s spine. “Merlin was injured,” she says, turning back towards the building. “And so was Michelle – ”

Barely has the second name left her mouth when Bedivere is sprinting past her. Roxy swears and breaks into a run of her own. The fog is lightening; she begins to see a glow towards the west, the sun partway through its daily journey towards the sea. They find the front door to the warehouse. Tristan and Merlin are no longer outside, so they go in.

Once inside, the candles lit provide adequate illumination to see the others of their party. Michelle is sitting up on a shipping crate. She’s holding a bandage to her forehead, and seems dazed, but Eggsy is hugging her in relief, so Roxy knows it can’t be that bad. Bedivere goes over to them at once and takes Michelle’s free hand. Michelle smiles at Bedivere, and Roxy has the pleasure of watching her friend’s cheeks turn a dull crimson.

“Merlin?” she asks, seeking out Tristan and assuring herself, again, that Tristan is unharmed.

Tristan seems to be feeling the same way, and she doesn’t confine herself to the evidence of her eyes: she comes over and puts an arm around Roxy’s waist, resting her forehead against Roxy’s and giving a long sigh. “Furious,” she says succinctly. “That bastard broke his leg. He’ll be off it for a month. Two, if he tries to ignore the doctor. There will be no living with him.”

“Luckily we don’t have to.”

“I’m afraid we do,” Tristan sighs. “Unless you want to incur our King’s wrath by saddling him with an injured Scot playing gooseberry during his honeymoon?” _  
_

“Oh, that’s not fair,” Roxy says.

Harry has been hovering over Eggsy, but he looks up at this and seems to remember there is a world outside his fiancée. “Chester King?” he asks. “Charlie?”

“Both dead,” Roxy answers. She says nothing more. The details, she thinks, can wait for later.

“You’ll have to stage the bodies,” Harry says. “Make it look like they killed each other.”

“Over what?”

“Opium.”

Roxy hesitates. “Will that be believable?”

Tristan, at her side, nods. “Drugs make people do terrible things,” she says soberly.

“Tristan, help her,” Harry says. Tristan nods. Harry goes on, “Merlin is out of commission.” He doesn’t bother to specify that he will be staying with Eggsy and Bedivere with Michelle. That much is understood.

“We’ll get on it,” Roxy says instead.

“Good.” Harry sounds exhausted. Roxy doesn’t quite know what she feels. But it’s over, she thinks. It’s over now.

“Come on,” Tristan says.

“Wait a moment,” Roxy says. She goes over to Eggsy and offers him her hand. “I’ll come back over tomorrow morning,” she tells him. “To work out wedding details.”

Eggsy takes her hand and squeezes. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

“I’m taking him back home with me,” Harry tells Roxy, quite unnecessarily.

She only nods at him. “Of course.”

“Come on,” Tristan says again.

“Yes,” Roxy agrees.

Back outside the warehouse again, they make short work of Chester and Charlie King. The necessary opium, to plant on their bodies, is very conveniently located within Chester’s own warehouse. It occurs to Roxy, as she closes Charlie’s eyes and hears the murmur of the Thames nearby, that Chester had probably used that fact for purposes of his own before. Then she shrugs. She supposes, after tonight’s actions, that she can’t much throw stones.

Anyway, the difference between them will always be crystal clear. Tristan’s hand finds Roxy’s, and Tristan looks at her in worry, but Roxy shakes her head.

“Neither of them ever cared for anyone but themselves,” Roxy tells Tristan simply. “Neither of them ever tried to do their duty. It was their undoing, in the end. They couldn’t even rely on each other.”

Tristan brushes Roxy’s hair behind her ears, quite unnecessarily, seemingly just for the excuse to touch. “Whereas you have many people who you can rely on.”

“And many people who rely on me.” For a moment she hears the echo of Chester in her head again: his voice, saying _all those years you spent poring over your family books and genealogies, and you don’t even know who your nearest relation is._

Roxy shakes it off. Smiles at Tristan. “You see,” she says lightly. “I know my place.”

“Is there another such place for me? At your side?”

“I thought that’s what we’d agreed to find out.” Roxy draws Tristan close and kisses here there. “It’s most unorthodox,” she says, when the kiss ends, “and not, I think, the kind of legal contract either of us had had in mind…”

“What isn’t?”

“Chester is dead. But my sire’s will – I still need a guardian. The will originally had two backups named, but both have since died. I will need to identify a suitable individual and petition the court.”

“Oh,” Tristan says blankly. “Who did you have in mind?”

Roxy attempts to look up at Tristan from between her lashes, then has to give it up, as she’s certain she looks absurd. “I was thinking the Earl of Aberlundy might be a good choice.”

Tristan gapes at her. With the Thames in Roxy’s nostrils, it’s easy to compare Tristan to a fish. But then Tristan is kissing her again, rough brick at her back and one hand curled possessively at the back of Roxy’s neck. And Roxy thinks – this is something she’s making for herself. Something that has no duty attached, no heritage, no entail. Something that no one else can grant her. Something that, therefore, no one can take away. Maybe, just maybe, Roxy’s finally found something that she can hold on to.

Percival be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're close to the end now - there will probably only be two more chapters! Elrhiarhodan will post the next chapter two weeks from now, on Sunday, June 10th. We'll see you all then! In the meanwhile, why not leave a comment? :)


	19. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding bells ring out in Tintagel Manor, celebrating the union of Harry Hart and Eggsy Unwin.

**Three Months Later**

Springtime comes early to Cornwall, particularly the northern side of the peninsula which gets the benefits of warm air flowing up the Atlantic. It's only mid-February, but the trees are beginning to bud and the daffodils are already in full bloom at Tintagel. Not that there are many daffodils left, the gardeners have raided the flower beds, providing the bounty of the season to the manor house, which is busy with preparations for the arriving guests, for the wedding, and most importantly for the new _Arlodhes_. 

Harry is excited for everything - including the guests - but he needs a few minutes when someone isn't asking questions, seeking his approval. He’s left Merlin to handle everything, telling his friend that he needs a chance to catch his breath and calm himself. Eggsy is arriving in a few hours today, to take up permanent residency here in Tintagel. He will arrive and when he leaves again, for their wedding trip, Eggsy will be Marchioness Cardoc, _Arlodhes_ of Tintagel, Guinevere of Kingsman, and most importantly of all, Lady Hart, Harry's bride and mate.

A pleasant shiver runs down Harry's spine at that last thought. _His mate._

Harry strolls past the carefully manicured gardens and down a narrow path. The gardens give way to wide lawns bordered by ancient stone walls. On the other side of the walls are flowing grasses and less carefully trimmed hedges. The weather gods have smiled on this corner of Cornwall, the days have been warm and bright; the azalea bushes that Perran had brought back from China seventy years ago have burst into bloom a few weeks early, turning this walkway into a riotous sea of color. Harry takes a left hand path that leads to a small gated cemetery, the final resting place for generations of Harts and their dependents. The gate creaks in protest as Harry pushes it open and a flock of birds scatter at the noise.

The cemetery is well-tended, but perhaps not as carefully manicured as the upper gardens. The detritus from winter has been cleared out, but that's all the groundskeepers have had time for, with the wedding preparations. Dandelions punctuate the green grass and tufts of cattails are sprouting amidst the daffodils, but Harry doesn't mind. He'd always preferred a little less formality here - the dead don't need to be impressed.

Harry heads for the focal point of the cemetery; a pair of worn marble archangels stand guard at crypt that holds the mortal remains of Perran Austell Hart and his mate, Rhys Marbury Hart. In the years between Perran's death and Harry's majority, he'd spent many hours here, talking to his grandsire and grandcarrier, telling them about his great plans to re-form Kingsman, to bring even greater honor and glory to family name. But today, the crypt is not his destination.

Harry heads for a much less ostentatious pair of plots - those that hold his sire and his carrier. There are a few leaves sticking to the headstone and as Harry kneels to remove them, he wonders if this had been a deliberate slight by the groundskeepers. His sire, had not been particularly well-liked by anyone, including his mate and his only child. Colan Hart had been a cold man, disdaining his parents' fiery approach to life. His mate, Daffyd Powys, may once have thought himself in love with Colan Hart, but years of cold silence had done its job to stifle all finer feelings. By the time Harry had been born, Daffyd had retreated emotionally and physically from his marriage, and any hopes he'd had of doting on his offspring had been dashed by Perran, who had little use for Daffyd's die-away airs. 

Perran and Rhys had taken control of the nursery and the raising of Harry, to such an extent all of Harry's early memories are of his grandparents. The sad truth of it is that Harry has few happy memories of either his sire or his carrier. For the first time in his life, Harry wishes that could be different.

Kneeling at his parents' grave, Harry tries to recall at least one moment when he'd seen his sire and carrier in complete charity with each other, or when they'd both shown Harry the same love and approval that he'd gotten from Perran and Rhys. But he can't.

Touched with a moment's sadness, Harry asks, "Where did it go wrong? Why weren't you like Perran and Rhys? Why couldn't you have loved each other?" 

He gets no answer except the soughing of the breeze. Feeling a little foolish, he stands and brushes at his trousers to dislodge the bits of grass that cling to the fabric. The gate creaks open and Harry turns to see who's joined him. To his delight, it's his intended.

"Eggsy!" He strides down the path, meeting Eggsy halfway. The privacy of the cemetery means there are no prying eyes to chide them and Harry sweeps Eggsy up in a delighted embrace. "You are early. I'm sorry that I wasn't at the house to meet you." Harry had planned to be waiting in at the front steps for his bride's final journey to his new home. But he has no complaints about Eggsy's premature arrival, since it gives them a chance for some privacy.

"A few hours. I couldn't sleep and neither could Gwen. It had been her suggestion that we leave early, ahead of Roxy and Tristan and Mum and Daisy and the rest of the wedding party at Morton Crescent. She said if we didn't leave then, we might not get out for hours. I'd thought that was a brilliant idea."

Harry has to laugh. "Of course Kilderry would do that. She really is a terrible influence." 

"I guess when you're a duke of the realm, you can do whatever you want and no one will gainsay you."

"That is true, but most dukes do have a very strong sense of propriety." Harry drapes an arm around Eggsy's waist and holds him close. "Now marquesses - we're upstarts - and have no sense of propriety at all." He leans in and steals a kiss. 

Eggsy, as cheeky as ever, replies, "Nor do marchionesses." He pulls Harry back down and kisses him. 

The scent of an Omega in rising heat - _his_ Omega - is almost intoxicating. The sun is warm, the ground is dry, and there's no one to tell them no. It's only the thought of mating with his Omega on his parents' grave that stops Harry.

"You're really going to make me wait, aren't you?" Eggsy pouts as Harry breaks off their kiss.

"Yes, darling, I am. We've lasted this long, it's just two more days. And then you'll never be rid of me."

Eggsy sighs. "I guess you're right. But it's just so hard, watching Roxy and Tristan being so in love and happy together, listening them bill and coo like they're newlyweds, and I’ve got to wait."

Harry hopes that the two Alphas will find a way to make their happiness permanent. Morton had talked with him shortly after the funerals for the late and unlamented Chester and Charlie King, asking if he knew of a way to break her sire's will, so she could be confirmed as Earl Morton without being married. He'd suggested referring the matter to Hardwick, Gideon, and Kenilworth - and particularly Gideon - who has a great talent for discovering loopholes. Morton had also asked if Harry had any influence with the local bishop. She'd said she needed to examine some old records and had told by the old prelate that since her status as Earl Morton hadn't been confirmed, she had no rights to examine parish records.

Eggsy takes Harry's hand. "If we're not going to be naughty, perhaps you might show me around?"

On his first visit to his future home, Harry had given Eggsy a tour of Tintagel Manor, which had once be a fairly modest residence, suitable for the local baron. Perran had the whole place rebuilt on a scale grand enough for a monarch and Colan Hart had made a number of improvements before his premature death. Harry and Eggsy had ended the tour in the Portrait Gallery, where Harry had formally introduced Eggsy to the family. 

Now, he tucks Eggsy's hand in his arm and they walk along the path, stopping at various gravesites. Harry shares a few anecdotes about various ancestors, but when they come to his parents' marker, Harry finds he has nothing to say.

Eggsy does, though. "They both died on March 21, 1799? They couldn't live without each other?"

"No, sadly that is not the case. There had been an outbreak of influenza. A quarter of the adults in the village and the manor died."

"I'm so sorry." Eggsy hugs Harry in misplaced sympathy.

"Don't be. I barely knew them. I was thinking, just before you arrived, how I could never remember seeing them happy together. In truth, my sire and carrier loathed each other. My sire was a cold man; he'd actively rejected everything his own sire had stood for. My carrier had been an Omega cursed by disappointments - in his mate, in his offspring, in his life. Dying on the same day was likely the only thing they'd done together since I'd been conceived." 

Eggsy looks traumatized. "How is that possible? How could you be the Alpha you are if your parents didn't love you?"

"I had my grandparents as an example. They taught me how important love is." Harry shakes his head at the memory. "Colan married my carrier for dynastic reasons - he'd researched and investigated and found an Omega to marry simply on the basis of heritage and breeding ability, much like the selection of a mare. There was never any love on his part. I think that was my grandsire's biggest disappointment in his only child. Perran had been an Alpha motivated by love - for his people, for his country, for his Omega. Colan had rejected all of that."

Harry pulls Eggsy close and kisses him again, softly, sweetly. "And until I laid eyes on you, I was content to live my life without the last, because I wouldn't subject a mate or children to such a lonely, emotionally barren existence. I'd seen how much Perran and Rhys loved each other, and that's what I wanted for myself, nothing less."

Eggsy rests his head against Harry's chest and sighs. "You took such a risk with me. You couldn't know that I'd come to love you more than life itself."

"I had to try, dearest. From the moment I saw you, I knew that if you could love me, I'd be the happiest Alpha alive."

"It'll be quite the story to tell our cubs and pups. How their sire kidnapped their carrier, to save him from a fate worse than death." Eggsy's tone is light, but they both know that if Chester had his way, Eggsy wouldn't be here, trying to tempt his groom-to-be into anticipating their wedding night.

They leave Colan and Daffyd's grave and Harry brings Eggsy over to his grandparents' crypt. 

"A little ostentatious, no?"

"A little. But Perran had wanted only the best for his beloved. He hated the thought of Rhys disappearing with time, leaving nothing behind." Harry remembers his sire's outrage over Perran's instructions - that his body would be put into Rhys' stone casket so they could spend all eternity together. He can understand his grandsire's sentiment. But those thoughts are far too grim for such a beautiful day.

Eggsy has similar sentiments and tugs on Harry’s hand. "Let's go back to the house, all right? It's too nice a day to spend it in a graveyard."

Harry agrees wholeheartedly.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Merlin closes his eyes and wishes the damn wedding was over and done with. Or that Harry and Eggsy had decided to elope to Gretna Green. Or that his goddamned leg had healed properly so he could get on a horse and ride away from Tintagel.

But none of those wishes come true. The wedding is still a day into the future. And as much as they'd wanted to be married immediately, Harry and Eggsy couldn't disappoint their friends and family by running off to the border to say their vows. As for his leg, it still hurts and that's his own fault. The doctor told him to keep off it for a month. Merlin gave it two weeks. That had been a big mistake and he'd spent the next six weeks in bed with his leg suspended in some weird contraption. Now he has a limp and a weather-wise ache and mostly feels like crap.

_Thank ye very much, Chester King. It's a pity ye're already dead, I'd have loved to kill ye myself._

At least Harry had been a friend and gifted him with a sturdy sword cane. Pity that Merlin's not had the chance to use the sword part yet. Although with the way that some of the guests have been carrying on, Merlin just might just do a little blood-letting.

"You're looking particularly fierce." Kilderry stares at Merlin over her teacup. "Anyone need murdering?"

That makes Merlin laugh. "Nay, Gwen. Not today. Maybe after the wedding, though."

"Anything I can do to help?" As if a duke of the realm would condescend to assist in such mundane tasks.

Merlin sighs. "All is under control. I'm just a bit put out by the chaos. We're hosting every Kingsman knight and their families, you and your family, Eggsy's family, a bunch of important people that Harry couldn't leave off the guest list, and they are all arriving today. Plus their servants." Merlin looks into his teacup and wishes it contained good Scotch whisky, not Indian Assam. 

Gwen says, "I thought that Harry and Eggsy getting married here at Tintagel would mean things would be a little simpler."

"Hah! Every single person on the guest list accepted their invitation. I guess seeing Harry Hart married is too much of an event to pass up. And yer good words about his intended have only stoked everyone's curiosity. The wedding has become the Society event of the season. I've been told that the London gossip rags have sent down scribblers to report on the damn ceremony."

Kilderry sighs. "I don't know what's worse, the hounds from the press or Catherine de Bourgh."

Merlin cups his forehead, if just to keep from smashing it into the table. "Ye had to remind me that the old hag's coming. It's bad enough that Adamelia's going to be here, but that fussy, interfering, know-it-all busybody is going to make my life a living hell from the moment she arrives until the second she leaves. Nothing will ever be good enough for her."

"And I guess it doesn't help that she'd been throwing her horse-faced Omega at Harry for the last five seasons."

"No, of course not." Merlin heaves himself to his feet and goes to a small cabinet hidden in the paneling. Normally, a breakfast room wouldn't have any liquor in it, but apparently someone (likely Harry's carrier) had secreted several bottles in the wall. Merlin takes the half-full decanter – it contains some very fine single-malt Scotch – and fills his teacup with it. Kilderry holds out her cup and he does the honors.

"Good call, can't quite face the old biddy without something stronger than tea."

Merlin eases himself back down and enjoys the fortified moment of charity with Kilderry. Of course, it doesn't last. Lucius, who'd come down from London with the rest of the staff to help prepare Tintagel Manor for the wedding, interrupts with an announcement. 

"Your Grace, Master Merlin, several carriages have passed the outer gate." The butler hands Merlin a list with the names of the incoming guests.

"Please send someone to fetch Lord Hart; I believe he and Miss Unwin have been taking a walk in the lower gardens and the family cemetery."

"Very well, sir."

Lucius leaves and Merlin gives Kilderry a resigned look. "As pleasant as this has been, duty calls."

The rest of the day is spent greeting visitors, directing staff, preventing catastrophes. Most of the Kingsman knights have arrived and while it's bad form to delegate work to guests, Merlin doesn't hesitate to send his comrades-in-arms scurrying around if he needs to.

And Kilderry takes charge of both Adamelia King and Catherine de Bourgh, who arrive in the next wave of carriages. It is a genuine pleasure watching Gwen shut down Lady de Bourgh so effortlessly. Even Earl Hesketh, still wearing mourning black for her brother and nephew, smiles as Gwen tells the pushy Alpha that she has a choice - to be quiet and be nice or to get back in her carriage and go home.

Harry had been wise to keep the evening meal informal, with a country-style buffet and small tables for family seating. Harry manages to give each of his non-Kingsman guests a few minutes of focused attention before moving on. As customary for a bride-to-be, Eggsy is kept under wraps, dining with his own family in private quarters. 

Merlin envies the kitling.

The dinner hour is complete and guests are guided to various entertainments; there are billiards and light gaming for those who wish to indulge (although no one will play as deep as they might if this had been The Black Hart). There's music and more innocent entertainments as well, and Merlin smiles as he sees Catherine de Bourgh chide her child for not pairing up to play charades with any of the eligible Alphas.

Keeping the civilian guests engaged in different activities had been a well-thought-out plan, and a maneuver that Harry and other Kingsman had employed on various occasions. It gives them all a chance to convene without raising an eyebrow. 

Harry gives him a nod before disappearing into one of several secret meeting rooms that Perran Hart had built. That's Merlin's cue to fetch Eggsy and bring him before the collection of knights.

Merlin taps on Eggsy's door and Michelle lets him in. She looks nothing like the frightened and haggard woman who'd been sent by Chester to deliver an ultimatum. In fact, she looks young enough to be Eggsy's elder sister, not his mother. He's heard through the grapevine that Bedivere has been a frequent guest at Morton Crescent, where Michelle Unwin has gone from housemaid to respected Morton dependent.

"Good evening to you, Master Merlin."

"And the same to you, Mistress Unwin."

"Michelle, please. It's fair strange to be called 'Mistress'."

"Very well, then do me the honor of calling me Merlin."

Michelle nods. "I will, then."

"Is Eggsy ready?"

"Aye, he's just reading Daisy a story, he'll be out in a moment."

They make awkward conversation for a few minutes, the kind that near strangers usually do. Merlin asks, "Do you like your rooms?"

Michelle blushes and nods. "They are rather fine."

"They will be yours when you move here permanently."

"It's so strange, my Eggsy going to be the lady of all this. To be _Arlodhes_ of such a fine manor and people. I never imagined that something like that could be possible for my little Egg." Michelle shakes her head. "My da used to talk about the fine house he'd grown up in, how he'd wanted that for me."

"Your sire?" Merlin had never really given a thought to Eggsy's family beyond Michelle and Daisy. Harry had once mentioned that Eggsy had pure lineage going back for many generations, not a single Beta in either his sire's or carrier's line. Merlin had figured that the kitling's family had been impoverished gentry, but there's something in what Michelle has just revealed that makes Merlin think that her family might be more that local gentry.

"He'd told me that his sire had a falling out with his family. Ended up taking his carrier's name. Don't know any more than that." 

Merlin's gentle interrogation ends when Eggsy comes out from the small bedroom where his sister is. "Merlin, is Harry ready for me?"

"Aye. Harry and everyone else." Merlin glances over at Michelle and she's smiling. Eggsy probably hasn't told his mother everything, but she has to know a little of what's going on.

Eggsy kisses his mother's cheek and she tells him not to be up too late, since he's getting married in the morning.

Merlin takes Eggsy to the meeting room via the servants' passages; it wouldn't do for any of the guests to get a glimpse of the bride the night before the wedding. The meeting room they are heading for is one that Perran had built specifically for a gathering of all of the Kingsman, and the old pirate had pulled out all the stops. He taps on the door, one that's no different from any of the other servants' entrances, except that it's kept locked and only Harry has the key.

The door opens in short order and Harry is waiting with a smile – not for him, but for his bride.

“Welcome, darling.” 

Merlin snorts, just a wee bit, at Harry’s extravagant language. Harry hears him and gives him a dirty look before taking Eggsy’s hand and drawing him into the room.

“You have to be kidding me, you’ve got a bloody Round Table in here!” Eggsy whispers, in awe.

Harry chuckles. “Perran had envisioned himself as the modern King Arthur, so naturally he had to have a Round Table.”

“Yeah, naturally.” Eggsy's tone is wry, but he's still awestruck.

Merlin can understand the kitling’s reaction, he had one quite similar when Harry had first shown him this room.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry can't quite believe, after everything that had happened, after the long months of preparation and waiting, that this moment has come. All of the Kingsman knights have gathered, including the once-Lancelot, Kilderry, who'd cheerfully extricated herself from Adamelia King and Catherine de Bourgh, and Harry looks around the assembly of friends and thinks, _I have accomplished much_.

And then he looks at Eggsy, his mate, his _Guinevere_ and amends that thought. _My work isn't done, I have so much yet to do._

Eggsy looks up at him and he turns a charming shade of pink and then winks at Harry.

_Oh, oh._ Harry realizes the double entendre in his last though and has to wonder if Eggsy's able to read his mind.

Merlin, standing behind him, clears his throat, drawing Harry's attention back to the assemblage.

"Yes, well." Harry has a hard time taking his gaze from Eggsy.

Gentle laughter susurrates throughout the room.

Harry finally manages to break eye contact with Eggsy and looks around the room. It's time for the ceremony to begin. “Alphas - ”

Every Kingsman knight rises to their feet and it is truly an awesome sight to see the full complement of Kingsman in a single place - a rare and treasured event.

“Thank you for coming out here, to the far end of England.” 

Someone, and Harry thinks it might be Bors, mutters, "It's not as if most of us aren't good Cornishmen."

Harry nods, conceding the point. Perran had always preferred his own countrymen and Harry had originally recruited the Alpha offspring from the original Kingsman.

"Be that as it may, I do appreciate that you have taken time from your peace-time lives to come here.

The next comment – and it sounds like Gawain – is not a mutter. "As if anyone would pass up the chance to see your sorry old ass married. And more importantly, have free access to your wine cellar."

Harry looks at Eggsy, who is doing his best not to grin. Merlin, on the other hand, is smiling rather fiercely. Harry frowns, feeling a little defeated. "You're really not going to let me indulge in solemn ceremony."

Lancelot snickers and says, "Hell no."

Eggsy nudges Harry with his elbow. "Do you really want all that pomp and circumstance, love?"

Harry has to think for a minute and realizes that no, he doesn't. "We'll have plenty of that tomorrow."

Eggsy just nods and Harry looks around the room again, seeing not a collection of powerful Alphas, warriors and spies, but his friends. People he'd go to the ends of the earth for. They don't need formal ceremony and neither does he. 

Harry takes Eggsy's hand and pulls him towards the center of the room, Merlin trailing behind him. He stands behind Eggsy, hands resting on his bride's shoulders.

"I believe, by now, that all of you have met my bride, Omega Gary Unwin.

Eggsy twitches under his hands.

"All right, I promised to keep this less formal. Eggsy Unwin, who is the eldest offspring of our late and beloved comrade in arms, Lee Unwin, is now know to you all, and you have - in your own ways - have made it clear to me that you believe him to be honorable, steadfast, loyal. That he has all the attributes of a Kingsman. But I must ask, is there anyone present who has found fault with Eggsy's character, who believes he cannot serve Kingsman with his whole heart?"

He doesn't expect any member of Kingsman to take issue with Eggsy. They had, to an Alpha - assured him that Eggsy Unwin would be perfect for his ordained role in Kingsman. However, people can have second thoughts, they can change their mind. But no one speaks out and Harry feels a knot of tension unwind in him. 

"As all of Kingsman find have found my bride worthy, I present to you Guinevere, the keeper of my conscience and moral center of Kingsman."

Eggsy turns and looks up at Harry, concern etched on his beautiful face. "Keeper of your conscience? Moral center of Kingsman? We didn't talk about this." 

Harry kisses Eggsy's forehead. "Darling, from the moment we met, you became my conscience. You pulled a knife on me to defend your honor, you've reminded me of the duty I own to all members of Kingsman, living and dead. " 

Eggsy bites his lip and still looks uncertain. 

Harry whispers in Eggsy's ear. "I am as certain of the sun rising and setting as I am that you will be the Guinevere that Kingsman needs, even if it takes some time for you to get accustomed to the role."

Finally, Eggsy nods. "I won't let you down." He looks at the assembled Kingsman. "I won't let any of your down."

Despite their gentle mocking of Harry's love of pomp and circumstance, the Kingsman knights, even Kilderry, get down on one knee to show their respect for their new Guinevere. Harry-as-Arthur joins them.

Eggsy bites his lip and looks like he is about to cry.

Merlin, who'd been watching from the edges, comes forward to play his role. He is carrying Perran's sword, the one he'd taken to calling Excalibur, the same sword used to finish the induction of every knight into Kingsman. He holds the sword at the hilt and presents it to Eggsy. 

"Do ye swear …"

Harry's world narrows down to Eggsy standing before Merlin, looking like something out of a Renaissance painting, so beautiful, so pure, so perfect. In this moment, Harry knows that everything he has done his entire life has lead to this moment, and a shiver rolls down his spine when he remembers how close he'd come to losing Eggsy, losing the best and most important part of his life.

Eggsy declares, in a clear, ringing voice, "I do so swear," and then quite shockingly, he leans forward and kisses the sigil embossed in Excalibur's hilt.

There is one more part to this ceremony, something that satisfies Harry's generous soul. He stands, but the rest of Kingsman remain on one knee. Merlin has placed Excalibur onto the Round Table and picks up a small gilded casket.

"When I had first thought of how wonderful it would be to bring you into Kingsman as Guinevere, I had considered crowning you with the coronet that is traditionally worn by Cardoc marchionesses on their wedding day. And while this is a wedding of sorts, in here, before this company, you are not the Marchioness Cardoc, and you deserve an honor that denotes who you truly are to me and to Kingsman."

Harry lifts out the torc he had made for Eggsy. It's made from pure and solid gold, an ornate ceremonial extravagance made in the ancient style, with leaping harts carved into the ruby finials. Eggsy's eyes widen as he sees what Harry's about to place around his neck.

"Harry?"

Harry murmurs, "Hush. You won't need to wear this often, though I would love to see you wearing this - and only this - in our marriage bed."

Eggsy eyes darken with desire and Harry can scent the richness of Eggsy's rising heat. "You've got a deal. And I just might have something for you, for our marriage bed." Before Harry can think of anything to say, Eggsy lifts his chin and Harry places the torc around his beloved's neck. "Welcome to Kingsman, Guinevere."

The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. Eggsy is given a seat next to Arthur's at the Table and each knight comes forward to give Eggsy their oath. Finally, Merlin kneels before Eggsy and Eggsy takes Merlin's hands and the ritual words are exchanged. But Merlin doesn't rise immediately after, he has something to add.

"I've served Arthur and Kingsman for nearly thirty years, but I've never been prouder to be part of Kingsman than in this moment. Ye honor us all, Guinevere, and I will follow ye to the end of time."

Harry has a moment of jealousy, but that passes quickly. Merlin's loyalty is unimpeachable, which had been why Harry had sent him to bring Eggsy to him in the first place. It's just knowing that will will not come first in Merlin's heart anymore that brings him sadness. But this is how it is supposed to be, how Harry wants it to be. 

Eggsy raises Merlin's hands to his forehead, "You have honored me from the beginning, and you continue to do so. I shall strive, for all of my days, to be worthy of your respect." Eggsy let's go of Merlin's hands and stands. "I shall strive to be worthy of the respect of all of Kingsman." Eggsy takes two steps forward and gracefully kneels before Harry. "And most importantly of all, the love and grace of my beloved, my Harry, my Arthur."

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Still abed, Eggsy gratefully takes the cup of sweet chocolate from his mum and tries to disguise his yawn. He fails miserably.

"Babe, I thought I told you not to stay out late last night. You're getting married today and you need to look your best."

"I know, mum. But some things can't be helped." Actually, that's not quite true. Harry had never told him what the last night's ceremony was supposed to be; just that it would be Eggsy's official introduction to Kingsman. Eggsy had felt that he'd acquitted himself with grace, but after all of the oaths and the ceremony, Eggsy had just about collapsed from nerves. Harry had taken him to a private parlor and plied him with wine, and then with kisses, praising him, reassuring him that he'd exceeded every expectation Harry ever had.

It had been hard to break away from those wonderful kisses, especially so close to his heat, but Eggsy persevered. "Harry, why didn't you tell me what would happen tonight?"

Harry had sighed. "It's traditional that knight-candidates go into their trials without any foreknowledge of the tests, what they will undergo. You might not be 'Sir Guinevere' but you are now a member of Kingsman. This ceremony had been your trial."

Eggsy had glared at Harry. "Or perhaps you know just how I feel about Guinevere's role in the myth, and you didn't want me to raise a stink." 

Harry had smiled and dropped a kiss on Eggsy's nose. "You see me all too well. My grandcarrier had similar feelings about being called 'Guinevere', but he certainly didn't betray my grandsire. And I have no doubts about your loyalty. Just as I have no questions about Lancelot's."

Harry had held Eggsy for a few minutes more, until a knock on the door interrupted the interlude. Merlin and Lancelot had stuck their heads in, reminding them that it was rising midnight and they all needed to be up early the next morning. Harry had been as reluctant to let go of him as he'd been reluctant to let go of Harry, but in the end, Eggsy had let Merlin and Lancelot escort him back to his suite.

Michelle had fussed a bit, wanting to know what had gone on, but Eggsy had put her off. She'd given Eggsy a look that said "you don't fool me one bit" but then left him alone to get some sleep. 

Eggsy had dismissed the maid; he'll never get accustomed to having someone help him undress. He also hadn't wanted the maid to see the torc. It took a bit of effort to find the catch that released the hinge, but he'd finally managed to get it off. Remembering what Harry said to him during the ceremony, Eggsy had packed the thing in the trunk that would be set along to the retiring cottage, where he and Harry would celebrate their wedding night and Eggsy's heat in privacy.

Eggsy finishes the chocolate and gets out of bed, not caring that his mum is watching. After all, she's seen his bare ass plenty of times.

Michelle holds out a robe for Eggsy and pushes him along. "Your bath is waiting, babe. Daisy and I have already bathed and we're going to go down to breakfast. A tray has been sent up for you and I'll be back to help you dress."

The first time he'd visited Tintagel, Eggsy had been slightly disappointed to find that it lacked the piped in hot water and drain system that was in Harry's Mayfair house. Harry had promised that once the wedding was over, he'd have a similar system installed here.

Eggsy doesn't linger in the tub and for once, lets the maid that Harry had assigned him dry him off before sitting him down in a reclining chair for a shave. Like most male Omega's, Eggsy's beard is fine and slow to grow, but it wouldn't do for him to have even the slightest scruff on his wedding day. The maid also trims his hair, clipping a few stray curls at the base of Eggsy's neck.

When the maid is done, Eggsy looks at himself in the mirror. He looks nothing like the harried young Omega who'd had no greater expectations than becoming Lord Morton's secretary. He looks _noble_ , a worthy mate for the Marquess Cardoc.

"Thank you, Symonds." 

The maid curtseys. "It is my honor, and may I give my deepest felicitations to you on this auspicious day. Speaking for the entire staff, we are looking forward to welcoming the Marchioness Cardoc to this household."

Eggsy swallows hard and does his best not to cry. "Thank you, Symonds. And please thank all of the staff for their support."

Symonds nods his head and retreats back to the maid's waiting chamber. Eggsy returns to the bedroom and finds the promised breakfast tray. Resting against one of the covered dishes, there's a note for him, his name boldly spelled out in Harry's distinctive penmanship.

Eggsy ignores the food and reaches for the note. He grins in delight at Harry's words.

_It's not too late to elope. If you leave the window open when you get to the church, I'll come and get you and we can make a run for the Border._

Eggsy knows that Harry is only half-joking. But he has no intention of starting off their married life with such chaos. He's has his fill of drama.

Eggsy eats lightly; nerves and his rising heat are playing havoc with his appetite. Soon enough, Michelle returns, but only Michelle.

"Where's Daisy?"

Michelle sniffs, a little put out. "Where do you think your sister is? Trailing after Lord Roxy like a puppy."

"That's never bothered you before. Why now?"

"I don't know. Maybe because of all of the fine company here? Lord Roxy is introducing Daisy to all of her noble friends. I don't want Daisy to get ideas above her station."

Eggsy reminds his mum. "By the end of the day, Daisy's going to be the sibling of a Marchioness. She's in good company now - learning how to move about in Society. She'll be going away to school in a year, and then to university. She'll have a Season and perhaps a highborn bride. I know for a fact that Kilderry plans to live long enough to sponsor her. You might very well end up being a mum-in-law to a very highborn Omega."

Michelle shudders. "Heaven forbid." 

"Why?" Eggsy's having way too much fun needling his mother.

But Michelle is having none of it. "Enough with your foolishness, it's time to dress. You'll need to leave for the church in about an hour."

Everything that Michelle hands Eggsy is new, never worn. From the skin out, Eggsy is wearing a pure, warm white, except for his ribbons and waistcoat and jacket, which are snow white and embroidered with silver. Of course the decorations are stylized harts leaping through the forest. Eggsy's rather glad he's fond of Harry's obsession, otherwise life would be a little difficult.

Michelle does up Eggsy's ribbons. "My little Egg, your da would have been so proud of you. Not just for today, but for everything you've made of yourself."

"Thanks, mum. I'm glad you think that."

Michelle shakes her head. "I'm not just saying that to make you feel good. I'm saying that because I believe it. And in case you don't know it, I'm so very proud of you, too. You've never taken the easy path. You stayed strong when I brought that monster into our home, you never bowed your head to him. You never let anyone drag you down. And believe me, I know just how difficult it's been. To go through it alone, to need and want and never give in. I wish I'd been just as strong."

Eggsy wraps his arms around Michelle, sweeping her into a tight hug. "Love you, mum. Love you so much." He kisses her forehead. "And just so you know, when Bedivere asks for your hand, I will be delighted to give you both my blessing."

"Oh, hush you." Michelle pushes him away. "One wedding at a time, please."

Eggsy hides his smile. He's enjoyed watching Viscount Dunwell gently court his mum and he fully expects Dunwell to ask Harry - and him - for permission to marry Michelle.

Michelle ties off the ribbons in the back of Eggsy's waistcoat and then helps him on with his jacket, smoothing it down. "I had wondered why Lord Hart wanted you in such an old-fashioned style, but it suits you."

Eggsy looks in the mirror and he has to agree. It does, even the cut-away along the right collarbone, which is supposed to provide proof of Eggsy's virgin status, looks right. He touches the unmarked skin and remembers all those years of lonely heats, the empty ache, the unfulfilled need. He remembers Michelle gently suggesting that Lord Roxy might be willing to help him and his own visceral reaction to that idea. He remembers wondering if it might be best to ask Dagonet if there was an unmated Alpha on the estate who'd be willing to help, with no strings attached, but then discarding that thought. Eggsy had known he'd been ruined by all of those novels, but he couldn't bring himself to take the final step.

Now, though, now he's glad he'd held fast, he'd believed that somewhere in the world, there was a perfect Alpha for him. That it turned out to be the grandcub of the Omega who'd written those novels in the first place is a coincidence he doesn't want to pick apart. 

"Enough of your day-dreaming, Eggsy Unwin. It's time to get to the church." Michelle not-so-gently taps him on the back of his head.

Years later, when his children ask Eggsy about his wedding day, Eggsy has to fudge so many of the details. He remembers only bits and pieces, like arriving at the church and getting hustled into the anteroom reserved for brides, he remembers Kilderry fetching him and bringing him to the front of the church. He remembers organ music and the tension in Lord Roxy's arm as they walk up the aisle in a slow steady pace. 

Mostly, what Eggsy remembers is Harry waiting for him at the altar. Harry, beautiful, wonderful Harry. He remembers the scent of his Alpha - good leather and polished steel and a river after the spring rains. He loves that scent, it makes his blood sing. As Eggsy recites his vows and hears Harry's deep voice giving his own responses to love and cherish and respect his Omega from this day forward, all Eggsy can think is that he's glad they don't have to make more than a token appearance at the wedding breakfast, because all of the emotion has triggered Eggsy's heat.

Harry must realize that because as they leave the church and step out into the sunny Cornish afternoon, Harry leans down and whispers, "Darling, shall we skip the wedding breakfast altogether?"

Eggsy looks at his new husband, eyes wide with shock. "Can we?"

"We are the _Arlodh_ and _Arlodhes_ of Tintagel, who will gainsay us?" Harry's grin is almost feral. "Besides, I don't wish to send our guests into a frenzy." 

"Then you'd better ask someone to make our excuses, because I'm about to commit an act of public indecency." Eggsy's clinging to Harry, his whole world is reduced to his husband's brown eyes and wicked smile.

Harry guides him to the open carriage decorated with garlands. There are young Omegas from the village tossing flower petals at them, but Eggsy doesn't care. He wants his husband and he wants him _now_.

Eggsy's vaguely aware that Harry's summoned Merlin and he hopes that Harry's telling Merlin that they won't be attending their wedding breakfast. From Merlin's shout of laughter, it seems that way.

As soon as they clear the village, Harry pulls Eggsy into his arms, murmuring all kinds of sweet endearments. Eggsy, though, would prefer dirty talk and isn't ashamed to tell his husband that.

"Eggsy, delight of my life, I hate to remind you be we are not alone." Harry tilts his head towards the driver.

Eggsy sighs and pouts. "Well, damn. Kiss me?" That seems like a reasonable alternative.

"It would be my genuine pleasure, husband."

Eggsy is fair certain that Harry's kisses are the best kisses in the history of mankind, because Harry is Eggsy's perfect Alpha. He's masterful and tender, he teases and he dominates and Eggsy just might spoil his beautiful wedding suit if they don't get to the retiring cottage soon.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry is unutterably grateful that the coachman has set the horses at a fast clip, he doesn't thing he'll be able to hold out against Eggsy for much longer. His gratitude increases a thousand fold when the carriage pulls up to the retiring cottage. He jumps down and lifts Eggsy out, carrying him up the short pathway and through the open door.

It is more elaborate than most, but like every retiring cottage, it is a building dedicated to providing comfort for the Lord and his mate during a heat. The single room is dominated by a large bed, and the covers have already been turned down. The other dominant feature is a bathtub big enough for two adults. While Harry had put off updating the plumbing in the manor, he'd spared no expense on bringing hot water and a drainage system to this place. In truth, he'd started on it right after meeting Eggsy at Morton Crescent so many months ago.

But none of that matters right now. His husband's heat is cresting, the scent of ripe strawberries and summer grass and new wine fill the room. Harry breathes deep and buries his face in Eggsy's neck, licking at the unmarked skin.

"Love, you going to hold me all night or are we going to make use of that really big bed?"

Eggsy's voice is breathy but he does have a point. For his cheek, Harry drops Eggsy onto the mattress and enjoys his husband's squeak of surprise.

Harry starts pulling off his jacket, irritated at the tight fit. He's about to rip it at the seams when Eggsy gets off the bed and walks towards Harry, his hips swaying.

"Let me help."

Eggsy's hands are like brands as the skim across Harry's shoulders, easing the tight-fitting coat off. Eggsy's certainly no valet as he tosses the garment across the room. Harry holds his breath as Eggsy pulls loose the ribbons at the back of his waistcoat, his hands sliding underneath the satin. Harry tries to undo the buttons that hold the garment closed, but his fingers won't cooperate.

Eggsy laughs as he reaches around and unbuttons Harry's waistcoat. It slides off Harry's shoulders and joins his coat in the far corner of the cottage.

Harry's now as worked up as Eggsy and turns around and chases Eggsy back to the bed. He growls, "It's my turn."

He takes a little more care with Eggsy's attire - he'll need to wear it again, at their wedding ball in a few weeks - it's tradition for a newly mated Omega to wear his wedding suit several times during the first year of marriage, with the placket over the mating gland closed. 

Soon enough, Harry has Eggsy naked from the waist up and looks at him in wonder. All of this beauty is his. He'd seen Eggsy in just his drawers that terrible night after Eggsy's failed heat, but he'd kept his eyes mostly averted in the dimly lit room. Now, sunlight is caressing his bride's skin, casting a golden glow over the pure perfection that is Eggsy Hart.

"Take off your shirt, Harry. Want to see you, too."

Harry's quick to comply and kneels on the bed, between Eggsy's spread thighs. "May I touch you?"

Eggsy laughs. "You don't have to ask permission, I'm all yours."

Harry doesn't laugh. "You are mine, but you are your own person, too. And I will never take anything from you that is not freely given."

Eggsy surges forward and kisses Harry. "I love you, you idiot. I love you more than anything, if just for that."

Harry cups Eggsy's face between his hands and lets himself get swallowed by the brightness of Eggsy's gaze. "I love you. I have waited a lifetime to say that, and I can't imagine ever saying that to anyone else. You are the beginning and the ending of my existence. Nothing in this world makes me happier than being your husband."

Eggsy looks as if he's about to cry. "Will you stop being such a poet, Harry Hart, and fuck me already?"

Harry kisses his husband and whispers, "Your wish is my command."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every reader who has followed this story. It has been a labor of love for me and for Kyele. I hope you enjoy the conclusion of Harry and Eggsy's story. There's just one more chapter to go, bringing us full circle, back to Roxy and how her own future will be shaped.


	20. The Will

Roxy smiles and waves as the Kilderry carriage pulls away down the carriage-loop at Morton Crescent. It’s a fine day, and her grandsire and cousin should have good weather for their travels. A glance at the sky shows that, spring or no, it’s unlikely to rain much before dark. By dark they should be comfortably ensconced in one of the many travelers’ inns that line their route between Morton Crescent and Debenheim, Kilderry’s primary estate.

Kilderry and her grandsire, Roxy’s cousin, the future duke, had attended the wedding of Marquess and Marchioness Cardoc, and then been persuaded to spend a month at Morton Crescent. Roxy had pressed them to stay for two, but both had declined: Roxy’s cousin because it’s planting season, and Kilderry because of the new arrangement she had decided to make for her life.

“I’ve spent twenty years living as a lonely old Alpha, and I don’t intend to spend a minute more that way,” she’d said bluntly, over brandy in the library at Morton Crescent, where they’d retired after dinner. “So I’ve decided to impose upon you both – six months apiece, in strict fairness. You – ” pointing at Roxy’s cousin – “will live with me at Debenheim during the warm months, and you – ” pointing at Roxy – “will offer me the sanctuary of a Cornwall winter during the cold ones. Now, I’ll brook no argument. That’s how it’s to be. Unless we’re in Town. Then you may draw lots, if you like. But I intend to have at least one of you with me at all times until I finally shuffle off this mortal coil.”

Kilderry had delivered this pronouncement with all the hauteur and authority of a sitting duke. It had not escaped Roxy’s attention – nor, she’s wager, her cousin’s – that Kilderry’s hands had been shaking so badly that she’d nearly spilled her brandy.

“Oh, well,” Roxy had said first, after a quick shared glance with her cousin had secured their mutual accord. “I suppose if you’ll brook no argument.”

“Just so,” her cousin had concurred.

“Though I expect we’ll be in Town next winter,” Kilderry had said cautiously, glancing between them. “Since I have this one to launch.”

“What a coincidence,” Roxy had said at once. “I was thinking of being in Town next winter as well.”

“Can we persuade you?” her cousin had asked.

“I expect so,” she’d assured him.

“Good,” Kilderry had said heartily, and knocked back her drink in sheer relief.

So that’s settled, and Roxy will discover again what it’s like to have family living under her roof with her, probably beginning in October when the autumn rains start to fall. Tristan had been amused at the arrangement, thankfully, and had omitted any pretense about needing to decamp in favor of the great Duke.

“It might be different if she hadn’t been Lancelot once,” Tristan had said, when Roxy had pressed, needing to be certain. “Or if she hadn’t given me quite the graphic description of the burial grounds at Debenheim.”

“She never,” Roxy had said, horrified and flattered in equal measure.

“Oh, quite,” Tristan had laughed. “And then of the kitchen gardens, which is where scum who hurt her grandcub would be buried, of course.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tristan had raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually?”

“No,” Roxy had had to admit. She had secretly loved the idea of her grandsire caring that much about her, and has been known to occasionally tease Tristan since, during their rare disagreements, by declaring that she would be sure to plant mint above Tristan’s unmarked grave.

The Kilderry carriage turns from the loop down to the tree-lined avenue and out of sight. Roxy sighs a little wistfully. But after all, she’ll enjoy having Morotn Crescent to herself again, too. Or rather – Roxy smiles to herself, secret and small – to herself and Tristan.

“Lord Morton!”

Roxy turns and lets her smile widen. “Good morning, Daisy,” she greets. “What have you got for me there?”

“The post, my lord!” Daisy skids to a halt and bows, before she remembers that she doesn’t have to anymore. She’s not a servant. With Chester’s demise, and Tristan legally established as Roxy’s new guardian, the Unwins’ place at Morton Crescent has changed to that of respected dependents. As it always should have been.

“Thank you,” Roxy says gravely, taking the packet of letters from Daisy. “Did you run all the way down to the village and back for these? You know you needn’t – one of the servants will go, if you don’t.”

“I wanted to be helpful!” Daisy is beaming. “And I talked to Farmer John and he says to tell you that the wheat crop is already tillering, and it shall be a good year, if the aphids don’t get it; and Sam Miller says the new stream bracing is working a treat, with even last week’s heavy rain still well below the banks.” Daisy finally pauses to fetch breath. “Is my carrier coming home today?”

“Friday,” Roxy says gently. Michelle had stayed at Tintagel after the wedding, by Eggsy’s express wishes, to help him manage the transition from servant to lady of a manor. Michelle had never had her own manor to run, but she had run her sire’s vicarage for many years after her own carrier had died, and then as a servant at Morton Crescent she’d seen much of the other side of how a great house is managed. Eggsy’s letters have been full of relief at having her help, as well as the simpler pleasure of finally seeing his carrier treated as she deserves – the respected parent of a high-ranking lady.

But though Eggsy would happily have Michelle there forever, Michelle herself has said she must return to Morton Crescent. She’d sent Daisy on back with Roxy, and they expect her on Friday. Daisy has been counting the days since Michelle had written last.

 _I trust you will not think worse of me for choosing to leave my pup,_ Michelle had added, as an aside to Roxy, _but of course, it’s better for the newlyweds to have some time alone! Cardoc is all kindness, but naturally he’d prefer privacy. Now, in a year or so, when they’ve had a chance to stand on their own two feet…_

When they’ve had a chance to get Eggsy pupped, more like. Michelle has hardly been overbearing on the topic, but it’s no secret that a grandchild would please her very much. Roxy isn’t complaining. She’d expected that Michelle and Daisy would simply remain at Tintagel after the wedding, and have their few clothes and other belongings sent to their new residence. The thought had left her frankly lonely, and not because of Michelle. Roxy will miss Daisy fiercely when the time comes for her to remove to Tintagel. Tristan is wonderful, of course, and the mere absence of Chester and Charlie counts for much, but Tristan has an estate of her own to manage. Her interest is in Roxy, not in Morton Crescent. Daisy, on the other hand…

But perhaps it will be just as well. Sometimes Daisy’s indefatigable interest and earnest effort are more pain than pleasure, when it makes Roxy think of the heirs she will never have, and the cousin in Ireland into whose keeping will one day pass all that Roxy – and Daisy – labor over so diligently.

Daisy’s mind, thankfully, is elsewhere, occupied with happier thoughts of Michelle’s near arrival. “Friday,” Daisy chants to herself, spinning in a joyful circle. “She’s coming Friday! And I may be here to welcome her?”

“Of course,” Roxy assures her. “I have already spoken with your tutor about that morning’s lessons.” The tutor is another addition to Morton Crescent, once it had become clear that Daisy’s home would remain here for the foreseeable future. She’s much to learn before she goes off to school. Eton, it will be, most like. Harry and Roxy had both gone to Eton. Which reminds Roxy: “Today’s lessons are _not_ canceled, so you’d best go and apply yourself.”

“Yes, Lord Morton,” Daisy says obediently. She darts in to give Roxy a quick hug, then runs off towards the house, spinning around partway up the hill to call, “Until luncheon!”

Roxy waves at Daisy with a smile. She follows the path towards the house at a more sedate pace, the packet of letters tucked under her arm. It’s rather thin today – there must be only five or six – and then Roxy has to stop and breathe for a moment, because under Chester’s tenure Roxy had received a letter perhaps twice a year. But now all matters of business come to Roxy directly, even the ones she will later delegate to her retainers. _Now_ she knows everything about her estate, not just what she can find out by snooping and eavesdropping and talking to the tenants. And now she controls it all, too.

Morton Crescent is hers in truth. It’s so wonderful that she forgets, sometimes, that it’s not hers in law. That reality is brought forcibly back to mind an hour later when, in the quiet comfort of her study, Roxy sets aside the last letter of business and turns to her two remaining pieces of correspondence – one from her cousins in Ireland, and the other, oddly enough, from Counsellor Gideon.

Roxy holds the letter from Ireland in her hand, contemplating. It’s not the first she’s received from them; whether she opens it or no, replies to it or no, it will not be the last. The Addergooles of County Clare – Roxy’s third cousins – have decided that Roxy’s being unmated and in no fair way to producing an heir, at more or less twenty-five, is proof positive that she never will do so. They’re right, though Roxy devoutly hopes they have no inkling as to why. But they’ve taken to writing Roxy stern letters instructing her as to _their_ wishes for the estate, which they doubtless view as theirs already.

In their last letter they had proposed that Roxy mate with her third cousin, Kathleen, Hamish’s sibling, in order to ‘formalize the presumptive succession and allow the future Earl to oversee the maintenance of his eventual estate’. They had seemed to take it for granted that such a mating would not result in offspring. Roxy has no interest in Omegas, but something tugs at her heart to think of Morton Crescent going to cousins who had never set foot on it, never ridden across it, never pored over its books or talked with its tenants or fished in its streams, never come to _love_ it…

Roy sets that missive aside. She’ll read it later. Perhaps. Or perhaps she’ll burn it. The outcome will be the same either way.

She takes up her letter-opener and makes a neat slit in Counsellor Gideon’s missive.

 _My lord Morton,_ Gideon writes in copper-plate script. _Having recently come into the possession of astonishing information pertaining to the matter of your honored sire’s will, the entail of your estate, and the descent of your most noble title, I respectfully solicit the honor of a meeting with your lordship at your earliest convenience. Your lordship will appreciate that it is not a matter to be entrusted to a letter nor to a messenger. I can be at your lordship’s service the day following the receipt of any instructions to that effect. Sir, I remain, your most humble and obedient –_

Roxy drops the letter. Then she snatches it up again and turns it over. Yes, it had been posted from Tintagel. Gideon had been to remain there for some time after the wedding, for there had been much to accomplish – the newly crowned Guinevere’s shares and position in Kingsman to be allotted, the marriage-articles to be finalized, an allowance for Eggsy, trusts for younger offspring, and more. Roxy had also asked for Gideon’s services, as well as the weight of Harry’s title, in an effort of her own. She has not forgotten what her uncle had said to her in the warehouse by the Rotherhite.

_All those years you spent poring over your family books and genealogies, and you don’t even know who your nearest relation is._

Roxy’s own search efforts had barely been worthy of the name. Letters to such worthies as bishops and bailiffs had been met with respectful platitudes and not much else. It would have been different if she were the Earl in truth, but as a mere Lord-in-waiting…

She’d gone to Tristan, thinking that if Tristan had written, as a sitting Earl and Morton Crescent’s legal custodian, they might respond to her authority if not Roxy’s.

“I’m willing, of course,” Tristan had said, “but Roxy, why are you trying to do this alone as a private citizen? You’re Lancelot – Kingsman resources would make this so much easier.”

So Roxy had written to Harry a second time – or rather, Lancelot had written to Arthur, for the first time – and received an acknowledgement that Kingsman had been on the case. That had been two weeks ago. Now Gideon’s letter says that those efforts had borne fruit.

Roxy sets it down again and pulls out a clean sheet of paper. _My esteemed Counsellor,_ she begins to write. _Morton Crescent stands ready to receive you as soon as ever you can arrive…_

* * *

Daisy bounces impatiently at Roxy’s side, outside on the front lawn of Morton Crescent early enough Friday morning that the dew still clings to the grasses. Roxy is bleary-eyed, but Daisy is as fresh as her namesake. “I think I see the carriage!” she shrieks.

Roxy squints. It’s barely dawn, but Gideon’s reply to Roxy had indicated that she would be joining Michelle in her journey to Morton Crescent, and moving their departure up a day besides. Which had led to its own flurry of activity, as not only Michelle’s chambers but an acceptable guest suite had had to be hastily prepared, sundry other matters attended to – the menus, for example – and all of it with twenty-four hours’ fewer notice. But the new housekeeper Mrs. Wilson is an absolute treasure; all is in hand as Roxy sees the Cardoc carriage turn off the avenue.

“They’re here!” Daisy goes hurtling past Roxy, cleanly beating the footman to the carriage-door and tugging it open herself. Michelle Unwin emerges laughing, half-helped and half-pulled by Daisy as she comes down the steps rather faster, Roxy suspects, than she’d have chosen for herself. But then Michelle has swept Daisy up into a warm hug and Roxy has to clear her throat and look away. Since Chester’s death, the ghosts of her parents have slept more easily, it’s seemed to her. But she can’t watch such a joyous reunion without remembering Percival returning on leave, and Roxy herself the giver and the recipient of such a welcome.

Instead she turns to the other occupant of the cottage, inclining her head in greeting as Counsellor Gideon descends. Gideon deigns to allow the footman to assist her, and the footman is visibly relieved. Gideon offers an impeccable bow in return.

When the formulae have all been uttered and replied, Roxy gestures towards the house and they enter, Daisy racing ahead with Michelle still somewhat involuntarily in tow. They are both at home here, so Roxy dispenses with any feelings of guilt for not playing the role of host for them, and turns instead to Gideon. “No doubt you will wish to freshen up,” she begins. “Evelyn – ” thus summoned, the maid appears. “ – will show you to the chambers reserved for you. Your early arrival will leave you some time at leisure before luncheon. Shall you wish to take a turn about the grounds? Earl Aberlundy has also expressed such a wish.” Actually, Tristan has been hovering ever since Gideon’s first letter had arrived. She’s even more anxious than Roxy is; she lacks the fatalism that years under Chester’s thumb have given Roxy.

“If my lord pleases, the news I bring is of great importance,” Gideon replies. “I believe your lordship will wish to hear it as soon as possible.”

As a matter of fact, Roxy _does_ wish to hear it as soon as possible, so she doesn’t argue. “Then you may find me in my study,” she replies. “Evelyn can direct you.”

“Very good, my Lord.”

* * *

“Stop pacing,” Roxy says.

Tristan reaches the end of the bookshelves, spins around, and comes back towards Roxy at her desk. “How are you not nervous?”

“Dread might be more the mark.”

“Dread?” That gets Tristan to stop in her tracks, at least. “What could be dreadful about oversetting that awful will and getting your inheritance back? If Percival were still alive I’d – ”

“Please don’t,” Roxy sighs. Tristan has taken to embellishing, of late, all the things she’d do to Roxy’s sire if given the chance. No doubt for her it’s refreshing, but Roxy can’t listen to it calmly. She may have finally accepted the notion that Percival might not actually have known what would be best for Roxy – might simply have been _wrong_ , not in possession of some secret knowledge about Roxy’s unfitness that Roxy herself had yet to discover but must constantly guard against – but that doesn’t make it easier to hear Percival spoken of with such vitriol. Perhaps he _had_ been wrong. But he’d still been the beloved sire who had taught Roxy to ride and manage tenants and oversee farmlands. The new understanding of him as a potentially flawed human being doesn’t make Roxy wish to damage those childhood memories; rather the opposite, truth be known.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan says contritely. “It’s just that…”

“It’s just that you were there,” Roxy acknowledges with a sigh. “You knew what he was writing into his will; if you hadn’t been sent off to infiltrate enemy lines the night before, you might even have been one of his witnesses. And at the time you saw nothing wrong with it.”

“At least nothing that a little time and a little growth wouldn’t cure.” Tristan comes over to Roxy, putting her hand over Roxy’s where it sits on the arm of her chair. “I thought he was being a trifle strict, but only a trifle, and that he’d certainly change his will when you’d grown older. You were so _young_ at the time, of course Percival was terrified of what would happen if he died – and I thought that was silly, too, because of course none of us were going to die. We were Kingsman. We were the best.”

Roxy turns her hand palm upright so she and Tristan can weave their fingers together. “I know,” she says gently. This is not a new conversation. “You were young, too.”

“Younger than Percival,” Tristan murmurs. Now her hair is going gray at the temples; younger than Roxy’s sire is still not young. Roxy already aches, some mornings, when the sun slants through the curtains in the chambers they share and lights up that grey so it’s impossible to ignore. If another war breaks out, then they’ll both do their duty, and both of their chances will be even. But barring that, the natural passage of time will take Tristan from this world years before Roxy is ready to let her go. It’s something she tries not to think about.

Tristan’s thoughts are still elsewhere, on a battlefield twenty years ago. “Percival was Earl, but I wasn’t. And when he talked about what would happen if you inherited, I thought about how terrified _I_ would be if _my_ sire died. And I was at least an adult.”

“It’s all right,” Roxy says. Then she revises her words, because it isn’t all right, not really; it might be starting to be all right, here, now, in the present, but for so many years it had been wrong. And just as she isn’t able yet to forgive Percival for those years, nor is she inclined to forget them. “It will be _made_ right. You’ve done so much already.”

“What, being your custodian?” Tristan scoffs. “And what will you do when I’m gone?”

There’s a rap on the door. The maid opens it a moment later. “Counsellor Gideon, as you requested, sir,” she announces.

Roxy’s fingers tighten on Tristan’s, then fall away. “Show her in,” she orders.

Gideon enters, as impeccable from her many-braided hair to her perfectly shined shoes as if she had not just spent the last two days in a carriage from Tintagel. Her bow is a marvel, and she accepts Roxy’s offer of a chair without undue diffidence.

“May I understand that your lordship wishes Earl Aberlundy to learn of the matter at the same time as yourself?” Gideon asks delicately, when these preliminaries have been completed.

“Just so,” Roxy says, nodding. Tristan establishes herself in a third chair and adopts an attitude of respectful silence. “Please begin, Counsellor. You have news of my sire’s will?”

“And of the descent of your title, yes, my Lord. The two matters are in fact inextricably related.”

“Go on.”

Gideon produces some papers. Roxy glances at them, then looks away. She knows what her sire’s will looks like.

“The late Earl Morton drew up what would prove to be his final will while he was deployed with his military unit,” Gideon begins. “He used a standard form and drew witnesses from those who served with him. It was with these witnesses that I began my efforts. I’m sure your lordship is well aware that the witnesses are often the weakest point of a will. Any bequest or familial connection to the testator disqualifies someone from witnessing.”

“Yes,” Roxy says, “and I pursued that angle myself. Lee Unwin – ”

“Indeed, I understand your lordship’s way of thinking. Since your sire included bequests for Mistress Unwin and any legitimate offspring, his signature was suspect.”

“But the will includes nothing for Lee himself.” Roxy sighs. “If he could have benefited from the provisions for Michelle and Eggsy, that would have still disqualified him, but – ”

“Those provisions only applied if Lee predeceased your respected sire. Therefore he appeared to be a valid witness.”

Roxy pauses. “Appeared?” she says, carefully.

Gideon sets the will aside and draws out another set of papers. “Now we begin to touch upon the descent of your noble title. You commissioned me, based on an allegation made by your late uncle, to discover whether you had any nearer relations than the Honorable Hamish Addergoole, your third cousin, and until now the heir presumptive to the Morton title.”

Roxy swallows. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Tristan leaning forward. “And do I?” she whispers.

Gideon inclines her head. “You do. If I may?”

Roxy nods dumbly. Gideon rises from her chair and spreads a series of documents on the desk.

“Your great-grandsire, the fifth Earl Morton, had two legitimate offspring,” she begins. “Both Alphas. You, of course, are descended from the elder Alpha, the sixth Earl Morton. The younger son, your great-uncle Albert, was understood to have died without issue in an affair of honor.”

“He was shot like a dog by Viscount Berwith,” Roxy says. She still remembers the bitterness in Percival’s voice on the rare occasions that Percival had talked of his long-dead uncle. “Berwith had been importuning the Omega that my great-uncle had been paying court to. It would have been a match if Berwith hadn’t shot Albert.”

“It _was_ a match,” Gideon says. She indicates another paper – a marriage license. “They had married in secret some months before, and were waiting for their moment to tell your great grandsire.”

“What?” Roxy breathes. She touches the paper with one trembling finger.

“Why marry in secret?” Tristan asks, seemingly unable to keep silent any longer. “If the courtship was honorable – ”

Gideon clears her throat and looks at Roxy. Roxy says, “The lady was of the merchant classes. My great-grandsire disapproved.”

“I believe, although of course at this late date it is impossible to prove to a certainty, that the then-Earl never knew of the marriage.” Gideon lowers her eyes, indicating that the topic is delicate. “The lady in question suffered a mental breakdown after her husband’s death. She withdrew from Society, and no more was known about her.”

“Marriage is all well and good, but this is about descent,” Tristan says. “She was carrying at the time of Albert Morton’s death?”

Gideon nods, once again professional and businesslike. “She bore him a legitimate heir. Here are a copy of the baptismal records.”

Another sheet is placed atop the marriage certificate. Roxy scans down the list until she sees the highlighted name: Grace Leigh Tremaryn. The surname rings a dull bell, but for the moment she can’t place it. It’s not Morton, anyway. She raises a questioning eyebrow at Gideon.

“After the lady had her breakdown, the cub was raised by her maternal grandparents, who were, it seems, likewise unaware of the marriage,” Gideon explains. “Thus, the cub was baptized under, and continued to use, her carrier’s maiden name. Grace’s carrier lived only a few more years, and with her passing all knowledge of the marriage seemed to have disappeared. Grace’s grandparents sent her to a modest boarding school, then, when she showed an interest in the church, to seminary. She was fortunate enough to obtain a living in Cornwall, on the Dunwell estate.”

“Bedivere’s lands,” Tristan says. “I begin to see.”

“Grace made a respectable marriage from among the other minor gentry of the area. The union was fruitful; they had six children. Second among them, their eldest pup, Miss Mary Michelle Tremaryn.”

Roxy’s jaw drops. “ _Michelle_? Michelle is – hang on a moment.” She always has to stop to figure these blasted things out. “Some kind of cousin – ”

“Second cousins, Lord Morton,” Gideon clarifies. “You share a mutual great-grandsire.”

“So that makes Eggsy and Daisy your second cousins once removed,” Tristan nods. _She_ has no trouble with calculating relationships and lineage.

“The Morton title descents through Alphaic-exclusive primogeniture,” Gideon says apologetically. “Omegas may not inherit. Miss Tremaryn, or rather Mistress Unwin, is not herself in the line of succession.”

“Aha.” Tristan grins. “But her legitimate Alpha offspring are. Daisy!”

“But Daisy isn’t – ” Roxy cuts herself off before she can say, _Lee’s cub._

Gideon nods. “The matter is delicate,” she murmurs. “A strict reading of the calendar would seem to indicate – but here Mistress Unwin’s tenacity works in your favor.” She produces yet another baptismal certificate. “Master Mary Daisy Unwin. And here, an affidavit Mistress Unwin swore out to the baptizing priest, that her cub was indeed the result of her marriage to Leon Unwin.”

Roxy picks it up. “Daisy was born two years after Lee’s death,” she murmurs.

Gideon coughs. “I am given to understand that the grief of losing her mate caused Mistress Unwin to be behindhand in the matter of baptism,” she says delicately. “She simply hadn’t time to do it until Master Daisy was two years old.”

“And the priest _believed_ that?” Changing Daisy’s birthdate on paper might have been easy enough to do, but no one who had actually looked upon the child could have been fooled. Surely any priest could tell the difference between a newborn and a two-year-old.

“Look.” Tristan points at the affidavit again. “Look at the name of the priest.”

Roxy looks. “Michael Alexander… Tremaryn.”

“My brother,” a new voice says hoarsely. All three look up. Michelle is standing in the doorway to the study, trembling. “He did it for me. Dean was hung, and we had nothing, and ’twas all my fault for ever taking up with that bastard in the first place – ”

Tristan is looking confused, but Roxy _knows_ suddenly, sees it all in a flash of insight. “My sire’s will,” she says. “It stipulated a place at Morton Crescent for you and any offspring you bore _Lee_.”

“Daisy wouldn’t’ve been welcome as Dean’s cub,” Michelle says, pleading. “If your sire had been alive he might’ve overlooked it, but Chester King would never. We had nowhere else – it was the only way.”

“So you made Daisy an Unwin.” Tristan nods, understanding dawning. “Requiring Chester to take her in, under the terms of Percival’s will.”

“And at some point Chester found out,” Roxy says. She shakes her head and makes herself meet Michelle’s eyes, watching the horror dawn. “Not that you’d changed Daisy’s birthdate and baptism – if he had learned that, he’d simply have thrown you all out. Chester found out about your descent from the Mortons. That’s what he meant when he said…” _That’s been a source of amusement to me all these years. She was fetching and carrying under your nose and you didn’t even know._ “I think it gave him some – some sick kind of pleasure. There you all were, my nearest relations in all the world, and he got to treat you like dirt.” Roxy has to stop talking and draw a shuddering breath. “He died too easily.”

“Killing him more slowly wouldn’t have changed anything,” Tristan says sadly.

“So what are you going to do?” Michelle is trembling faintly, but she meets Roxy’s eyes and tilts up her chin. “Now that you know about Daisy.”

“Do?” Roxy stares at her. What is she to do? She’s always known about Dean Baker. Eggsy had told her years ago. Roxy hadn’t quite realized, then, the importance of concealing Daisy’s descent, but it doesn’t change anything now that she does. Or rather, it does change things, but only because it means –

“We can go to Tintagel,” Michelle says. In her agitation, her accent is slipping, crisp vowels melting into a Cornish lilt. “Ye needn’t house us anymore. But Daisy’s got a future now, if only ye don’t tell about Dean. With Eggsy’s marriage she can go to school, make a trade, even go into orders like me sire – ”

Roxy throws up a hand, and Michelle stutters to a halt. “I don’t think you quite understand,” she says. “I don’t care a fig whether Daisy’s Dean Baker’s cub or Lee Unwin’s. I care that she’s _yours_.”

Michelle starts to tear up. “That’s right good of you, my Lord,” she starts.

“No, you’re still not getting it.” Roxy turns to Gideon. “The descent of my title. If I follow the family tree correctly, Daisy is a closer relation to me than Hamish Addergoole. She’s an Alpha. And she’s legitimate. All the way down from my great-grandsire. Because Michelle had her baptized an Unwin, she’s legitimate.”

“Correct on all counts,” Gideon says. She does not – quite – smile.

Roxy turns back to Michelle. “Do you see it now?” she asks. “Daisy is my heir.”

Michelle sways on her feet. Roxy jumps to her feet, thinking Michelle’s about to faint, but she’s apparently made of sterner stuff than that. She’s pale, and Roxy hastens to help her to a chair and get her a brandy, but she doesn’t faint.

“Roxy,” Tristan says. Roxy turns, to see Tristan standing next to her. Tristan reaches out and puts a hand on Roxy’s arm, as if she thinks Roxy herself might faint. “ _You’re_ still not getting it. If Daisy Unwin is your legitimate heir, then she has an interest in the Morton estate. And because she was a minor when Percival’s will was witnessed, _Lee Unwin was her legal guardian_.”

Roxy stares at her.

“Earl Aberlundy is correct.” Gideon has turned to face them. “As Daisy’s sire, barring any legal arrangement to the contrary, Lee Unwin would have become Daisy’s – and Morton Crescent’s – guardian, should Percival and you yourself have died during Daisy’s minority. That makes Lee Unwin, in effect, a beneficiary. He is ineligible to have witnessed the will.”

“But,” Roxy protests. “But Daisy wasn’t born when Percival wrote the will! She wasn’t even conceived yet – she wasn’t in the line of succession! And even if she had been – she wasn’t Lee’s cub!”

“According to the affidavit,” Gideon points to it again, “she was.”

Roxy’s head is spinning. Now it’s her turn to sit down and be handed a glass of brandy.

“Let me see if I understand this,” she says slowly. “Because Michelle changed Daisy’s birthday – it seems as if she were alive when Lee signed the will. If Daisy were alive, then she was already my heir. But she was minor, so she needed a guardian. Because Michelle changed Daisy’s parentage, Lee was presumed to be her guardian – therefore a beneficiary – therefore an ineligible witness. Because Michelle changed Daisy’s birthdate and parentage, the will is invalid.”

“Just so,” Gideon agrees.

“Daisy,” Roxy says. “Daisy is my heir.” Her eyes slip closed, the better to contemplate the sheer magnitude of this revelation, and behind them, images play. Daisy riding before Roxy on Strider, eagerly drinking in everything Roxy has to say about the estate. Daisy running down to the village every day and bringing Roxy back detailed reports about each tenant and their concerns. Daisy sneaking into the library at night to read the plans the surveyor had submitted for the new mill, then confronting Roxy over breakfast with her questions. Why change to a water turbine instead of continuing to use a wheel? Why change the design of the sluice gates? Why reinforce the shoring with iron instead of stone?

Dagonet had told Roxy that while Roxy had been in London, Daisy had still snuck off down to the village or out to the farms as often as she could. Roxy remembers doing that as a child. Of course, the land had been in Roxy’s blood.

As it is in Daisy’s.

“And now you may tell those Irish cousins of yours to go pound sand,” Tristan says gleefully. “A pox on them! They’ll never inherit a thing!”

“Do you mean it?” At the sound of Michelle’s voice, Roxy opens her eyes and looks at – at her _cousin_. Who is looking back at Roxy in disbelief. “You’ll really have Daisy as your heir? That is – I mean to say – you know the truth, Lord Morton. Daisy’s not really legitimate. You don’t have to acknowledge her.”

“But I want to,” Roxy says, something bubbling up in her – the same feeling that Tristan can make appear by smiling at Roxy, or riding with her, or talking sleepily of future plans as they lie together in bed at night. Happiness. This is happiness. “Daisy loves Morton Crescent. She loves it like I do. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather inherit.”

“Then if it pleases your lordship,” Gideon says, “I can begin to file – ”

“Yes, at once,” Roxy says, not even letting Gideon finish the sentence.

“And overturn that travesty of a will while you’re at it,” Tristan adds.

“One requires the other,” Gideon murmurs.

Roxy grins. Then – “There is one thing,” she says, looking back at Michelle. “Daisy will have to stay here. That is, of course she shall attend school, and so on. But she can’t live at Tintagel. I know you were hoping to remove there when – well, when a certain happy event came to pass – but as my heir, Daisy will have to remain at Morton Crescent. There’s still so much to learn…” The realization dampens the happiness bubbling inside her somewhat. “I don’t know what to say,” Roxy confesses. “I dread even the thought of dividing your family.” It makes something lodge itself in her throat, hard and difficult to swallow around. It makes her think of her parents’ funerals.

“Why, Lord Morton, you speak as if Tintagel were on the far side of the moon,” Michelle scoffs. “’Tis but a two days’ journey. My Daisy will be busy as a bee with all the learning she’s got to do, and so will my little Egg when eggs of his own come along. They’ll hardly notice me dividing my time up. Don’t fret yourself about that. Even with the distance it will still be more time together than we had before.”

When they were in service, Michelle means. That’s true enough, Roxy supposes. Servants work sixteen-hour days and then they sleep. There’s little time for a family in there. Now they need no longer work. Even spending two days a week traveling, the five that leaves for togetherness will well eclipse the scattered moments they’d had before.

And once Daisy goes off to school, too, Michelle can make Tintagel her principal residence, and spend the holidays at Morton Crescent when Daisy is home. Roxy smiles again.

“Then it’s settled,” she declares. She rises from her chair. “Gideon will handle the paperwork – ”

“At once, my Lord,” Gideon agrees.

“ – but I think we should tell Daisy ourselves. Don’t you, cousin?”

Michelle dashes a tear from one eye. “I quite agree.”

* * *

Summer turns to fall, and the rains come. Kilderry arrives on a crisp October morning. She has had the whole tale from Roxy already by letter, but she makes Roxy tell it all over again – great-uncle Albert’s doomed marriage; the Reverend Grace Tremaryn and her living in Cornwall; Michelle Tremaryn making her appearances at the balls, dancing with Lee Unwin while wearing oxeye daisies in her hair. Her favorite flower, apparently.

“And thus the name of your cousin and heir.” Kilderry sighs romantically over her tea. They’re in the small parlor, and though it’s barely midafternoon, the candles are all lit: there’s a storm raging outside, and the view from the windows is entirely obscured by rain. “It’s like something out of a novel.”

“It is rather,” Roxy admits. She may have a weakness for such novels. But Tristan does as well, so that’s something they share.

Kilderry reaches for a biscuit. “How did the Irish cousins take the news?”

“I believe the howling could be heard clear from County Clare.”

“Hmm.” Kilderry’s look is sharp. “There _is_ nothing they can do about it… correct?”

Roxy smiles serenely. “The court has accepted the proof of Daisy’s legitimacy,” she answers. “There is now nothing they can do about it.”

“Excellent,” Kilderry says in kind. “Still, if you ever need me to send your cousin to visit our Irish estates and, incidentally, knock a few heads together, say the word.”

“I shall,” Roxy assures her, “and thank you.”

They sip their tea in smiling agreement.

There’s a decorous knock on the door. It’s not immediately followed by a maid or footman, so Roxy calls, “Yes, Daisy?”

Daisy enters and makes a mostly correct bow to Kilderry. “Your Grace,” she says. “Please excuse the interruption.”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear. I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance.” Kilderry shares a smile with Roxy. “I understand you have no living grandsires of your own, but as Roxy’s grandsire, I intend to take up the mantle in an honorary capacity.”

“Oh!” Daisy studies her closely. “Should I call you grandsire?”

“Only if you wish. Otherwise, you may call me Gwen.”

“ _Lord_ Gwen,” Roxy amends hastily. She gives Kilderry a scolding look. “What happened to the fearsome grandsire who was a stickler for propriety?”

“She mellowed in her old age.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Lord Gwen, Lord Roxy,” Daisy says, “but Dagonet said you must be told at once. The rains have been so heavy he’s been checking on the older roofs on the estate – ”

Roxy winces. Yes, they’d only managed to reroof about half of the structures that had truly needed it thus far, and now they’re paying for it. Only last week the winter storehouse where Cook likes to keep carcasses had suffered a leak. Thankfully Cook hadn’t yet begun to fill it for the winter, and the only casualty had been some old braided corn, but Cook has been fearful and worried ever since.

“ – and he says that the heat shack’s gone and caved in completely.”

Kilderry’s eyebrows climb towards her hairline. Roxy buries a wince. “You mean the retirement cottage, Daisy,” she says gently. “The polite term is retirement cottage.”

“But retirement is when you’re too old to work anymore and you get your pension for service.”

Kilderry clears her throat. “It’s also a gentle term for when an Omega must seclude themselves during their heat,” she explains. “They retire.”

“To a cottage,” Daisy clarifies.

“Yes.”

“All right then. The _retirement cottage_ roof has caved in completely. Dagonet says what’s inside it will be soaked through by nightfall, and if there’s anything you want to save you’d best go straight away.”

Daisy looks at her expectantly. Roxy looks away. She’d used the excuse of correcting Daisy’s language to bury her first reaction to the news, but now Kilderry is watching her, too, and Roxy has nowhere to hide. In the midst of this, Roxy clings to what she knows is expected of her, and rises obediently. Duty. Duty will always guide her right, even if she isn’t sure of anything else.

“Forgive the interruption,” she says to Kilderry. “Perhaps you will accept Daisy’s company in lieu of my own until I return?”

“How delightful.” Kilderry beams. “Sit down, young one, and tell me all about the new mill you’re building.”

Daisy brightens. The mill is her pet project – she’s all but taken it over from Roxy entirely – and she hardly waits until she’s seated to begin babbling about the new turbine they’re having installed. Roxy watches her fondly for a moment before taking her leave.

Out in the hall, Roxy heads down to the mud-room and begins pulling on her high boots, the ones specially sealed against water. Dagonet comes into the mud-room partway through her effort and silently assists her with her second boot.

“I thought ye’d want to know, lad,” he says at last, as Roxy stands up, stamping her feet. “But if ye want to just tramp around for a few minutes and then declare the contents a loss, no one would be the wiser.”

“I would be,” Roxy says.

Dagonet sighs. “Lad – ”

“It’s just a cottage, Dagonet.” She swings an oiled cloak around her shoulders, tugging up the hood, and goes out into the storm.

The rain pounds her head and shoulders, hard, more like blows than like drops of water. The path from the house to the cottage is theoretically marked out by wide paving stones, but a combination of neglect and the truly impressive amount of rainfall has largely washed them under a tangled mess of mud and runoff. But it’s not far, and Roxy knows the way.

Every noble household has a retirement cottage, much like a dowager house is also _de rigueur,_ though the two are usually located on opposite sides of an estate. A retirement cottage is placed as near the main buildings as is practical, to allow the lord of the manor to return to the house to attend to business in the lulls of their mate’s need, and to make it easy for necessities such as food and drink to be conveyed from the kitchens to the cottage. The cottage itself is called so mainly by courtesy: it contains only a small pantry and linen closet, an equally small antechamber, and the bedchamber itself. That room at least is usually large.

A retirement cottage is a private space. More than any other place on the estate, it belongs primarily to the lady of the manor. During marital disputes it’s common for the lady to remove herself there to gain separation and distance. It’s customarily new-furnished by each new lady, and Roxy had been taught that the Omegan nesting instinct expresses itself most strongly in two places: the nursery and the retirement cottage. Roxy herself should have visited the cottage only on certain occasions, heavily prescribed by tradition. A visit upon puberty, accompanied by her sire, to familiarize herself with the layout. A visit upon engagement, to perform the same service for her fiancée. And then, of course, during her lady’s heat.

Percival and James had both been dead before even the first of those visits could have taken place. Roxy’s first and only time setting foot in the cottage had been right after James’ death, looking for anything James might have wanted to be buried with. After that, servants had shut the place up. Neither Roxy nor Chester King had ever had reason to open it again.

As Roxy gets closer and the structure becomes visible through the rain, she can see the damage to the roof: it looks like it’s collapsed above the antechamber, and as Roxy steps through the threshold, the rain scarcely lightens. She looks around quickly, but there’s nothing to be salvaged here. Nothing she sees is particularly worth salvaging, anyway. The furniture is minimal and generic. The frame on the wall might have held art of some sentimentality, but no value, and those to whom it might have had worth are dead these many years.

A quick look into the pantry and linen closet show that they’d been emptied long ago. The shelves and cabinets are ruined, but they’re no matter to replace. That just leaves the bedroom. Roxy takes a breath, steels herself, and pushes open the door.

The roof of this chamber has largely survived, and as a result, so have its contents. Roxy pauses on the threshold, shivering, and sees –

Emerald hangings, a carpet stretching from wall to wall of beautiful tufted wool, a counterpane of pale moss with worked hangings in onyx. Even the walls are the color of fresh grass up to the molding, and only then a pale cream. James had decorated this room as a second ancestral seat of the Morton lineage. Here he had come with his husband on their wedding night. Here he had labored to give Roxy life. And here, for years after, he had retired alone or with Percival, each time hoping…

So many times Roxy had stood before the portraits of her parents, speaking to them, reaching to them, trying to find some spark of them that lingered in this world after the passing of their mortal shells. All the time she’d been in the wrong place. The ghost of her carrier had been _here._ And while, as she’d stood before those portraits, she’d spoken words of fear and longing and dangerous, stifled hope, as Roxy stands here in this boudoir seemingly untouched by time, she finds herself thinking, and feeling, something entirely new.

“I wish you’d stopped,” Roxy tells the empty air. Tells James. Her feet move of their own accord, and she paces off the room: nightstand, window, bedpost, wardrobe, bedpost, connecting door, wash-stand. “I would have loved to have siblings, of course I would have, but I would rather have had _you_. Nothing you or I could have done could have stopped the bullet that took Percival, but you could have saved yourself. You could have taken your life for what it was and made the best of it. Instead of going to see Cronin and other quacks like her, instead of trying to force your body to do something it simply couldn’t, you could have just – ”

Roxy stops. She reaches out and touches the counterpane. Then, to her own surprise, she finds herself on the bed, clutching a pillow that still, somehow, smells of her parents, and weeping.

The rain goes on outside. It goes on for a long time, drumming on the windows, insensibly soothing. At last Roxy calms down, and wipes at her own eyes.

Already she’s beginning to feel ashamed of herself. Eggsy had told her, hadn’t he? _There’s a condition. That affects Omegas. Mostly purebloods, Gwen said… You told me once that after – that when your sire came home to visit, after he left, your carrier would have a period of depression…_

Probably James had had no more choice, in the end, about trying for children, than Percival had had about that bullet. Roxy has learned what she herself is capable of when pushed to action by the twin forces of love and despair. Perhaps if Percival had lived longer, if the war had ended, if he’d come home, then things might have been different. But only then.

Roxy sits up. She’s made a bit of a mess of things, and although she already knows the sensible thing to do is simply to clean out the entire cottage and dispose of its contents, some force of nostalgia prompts her to smooth down the coverlet. She brushes futilely at the places where her tears had spotted the pillow-cases, and stops when something crinkles beneath her hand.

Slowly Roxy turns over the pillow-case. If there are animals nesting in the linens she really _will_ have to dispose of everything. She tugs at the fabric, and it gives at even that gentle pull, old seams disintegrating. The down pillow comes free easily, escaping feathers making Roxy sneeze. But there’s no nest in the pillow case. Rather, the crinkling sound had come from paper, old and yellowed and bearing the unmistakable scrawl of her sire’s handwriting.

She picks them up slowly. Roxy’s read too many novels not to know at once what she holds. These are Percival’s letters from the battlefield. James had put them under his pillow. Because, the old wives’ tale goes, sleeping with a memento of a loved one under one’s pillow would cause you to dream of them. And James had put them under _this_ pillow, and not one in the Countess’ chambers in the main building. Because this had been the place that had been sacred to just the two of them. Morton Crescent had been the seat of their family unit. But here, in this place, there had only been two people in love.

Roxy understands that kind of love now.

The first letter she unfolds is the oldest, she sees. The paper is soft and nearly comes apart at the creases. The date – Roxy calculates. This letter must have been written very soon after Percival and James had first met. Its contents confirm it. _When I saw you there across the room, it was like everything else in the room ceased to exist,_ Percival writes. Roxy has to smile at her sire’s flair for the dramatic. It seems to have skipped Roxy herself, but perhaps Daisy will develop it as she ages.

Roxy reads on. These can’t possibly be all the letters Percival has ever written James – there are perhaps a dozen in the small stash – but they are the ones James had saved. Some are short, some are long, and taken together they span perhaps fifteen years.

The first handful were written during their courtship, and their mixture of innocent romance and daring fantasy makes Roxy blush. There’s a gap then, for their mating and honeymoon, and then a new genre emerges which Roxy had somehow not realized she should expect: baby letters.

 _You mustn’t tell me when she takes her first steps,_ a letter written when Roxy would have been about nine months old implores. _I can’t bear to think that I shall miss them. I know I wrote you that we would be home for Easter, but there have been losses on the eastern front – nowhere near us, darling, so you needn’t worry, but it now seems that Midsummer will be the earliest. I wish I could promise you I would be there for her first birthday. But at all events write again soon, and tell me more about the way she laughs, and whether she’s yet begun to eat solids…_

Roxy has to set that one aside without finishing it. She already knows she’ll take these letters with her when she goes; the rest of the cottage may be gutted, and left bare for when Daisy brings home a bride of her own, but the letters Roxy will read over and over again, until her eyes themselves dim with age. She can wait to read the rest of this one.

In fact – she pages through the rest of the pile thoughtfully. Perhaps she’ll save the remaining letters as well. Read them in pieces over the next few weeks or even months. Extend the experience of reading them for the first time, the closeness these letters admit her to…

Something catches her eye as she turns over the last letter. The pen-strokes form into letters and words without her conscious intent, and then she can’t stop.

 _I persist in thinking we should retain hope,_ Percival had written, _but even if it does prove so, I must implore you never to let so much as a hint show to Roxy…_

“What?” Roxy says aloud. She turns the page – this letter is short, comprising only two close-written sides of a single sheet of paper – and starts from the beginning. Which proves to be about some improvements James has been making to the stables, on which Percival sends his thoughts. Roxy skims impatiently until:

 _But as to your fears – I cannot say they are unfounded; if the doctor thinks so, then I will not gainsay her. My carrier’s sister indeed never had any children after his third, and I was always told it was because the birth was so traumatic. Remembering how difficult Roxy was for you to bear, and all of our difficulties since, I must in justice suspect that our little Roxy may be fated to make her way in the world alone in her generation. I persist in thinking we should retain hope, but even if it does prove so, I must implore you never to let so much as a hint show to Roxy, that it might in some way be_ her fault _. I see so much of myself in her; so much as to be frightened at times. She would take it to heart. There are still things I reproach myself for decades later, that I am sure my own parents never meant me to dwell on so, and yet I cannot help it. Roxy would be just the same: once let her think that she bears some blame, some culpability, or worse yet that there is some flaw within herself, and she will carry that for all her life. I thought I discerned some of that already beginning when I was home last, and she was so saddened that I was unable to spend more than a morning with her… You must be sure to praise her strengths at every turn, as you do for me. My love, I don’t know what kind of Alpha I would be without your strength to lean upon. I wish I could give her another such as you. You objected to the terms of my will, but truly it is for the best. Our Roxy deserves a love such as we have known, and I fear that she will close herself off from it if allowed to. Didn’t I nearly do the same? But I believe I can rely on her love for Morton Crescent to drive her to happiness in spite of herself. And in response to your well-spoken concern, I have placed the age of her majority at 25. There will be no need for Roxy to rush into mating with the first eligible Omega who presents themselves. She may wait, and court, and allow love to grow, before she is forced to assume any responsibilities related to the estate._

_There, that’s enough of such gloomy thoughts. It’s as well to plan, but I look forward to seeing you weep at our little cub’s marriage, and – truth be known – I expect to weep myself._

_We go back to the fight tomorrow. We don’t expect much resistance, and I should write again by Saturday, so look for that letter soon. Sleep well, my sweetheart. Please don’t worry too much._

_Your loving husband,_

_Percival Morton._

* * *

“They’ve painted Lord Morton too tall,” Harry says, a month later, when the wheat is at its height and the summer sun beats mercilessly down at all hours of the day. Thankfully, Morton Crescent is constructed of good honest stone, which repels the heat. Indoors, in the portrait gallery, it’s pleasant and cool, even with the number of people gathered within to view its latest addition.

“Nonsense,” Kilderry says, shouldering Harry aside to get a better look at the new portrait. “It’s just the perspective.”

“But why paint a grape arbor?” Bedivere looks skeptical. “There are no arbors on the Morton lands.”

“I think it’s a lovely touch,” Eggsy says loyally.

“And I like the wheat fields stretching out in the background,” Michelle says, smiling at Bedivere from her position on his arm.

“You can see the new mill!” Daisy says proudly, pointing to the representation of the village. “I told the painter to put that in!”

“Roxy?” Tristan looks at her. “You’re not looking at the painting. What are you thinking?”

Roxy is, indeed, looking at the empty space to the right of the painting. “I’m thinking that that’s where Daisy’s will hang one day,” she says softly. “I never thought I’d do it, Tristan. Become Earl – get Morton Crescent back onto solid footing – and have an heir of my blood, all at the same time?” Roxy turns to Tristan and nudges at her; Tristan opens her arms, responding to her silent request, and folds Roxy within them. “I did it, Tristan, I did it.”

“You did,” Tristan says fiercely.

“It’s a lovely portrait, Lord Morton,” Eggsy says loudly from behind them. “I think we’ll just step out of the gallery for a moment. Enjoy it from a distance.”

There’s a shuffle of feet. Roxy laughs through the sudden tears pricking her eyes. “They’re too good to me,” she says. Most would do far worse than turn a blind eye to two Alphas embracing. Her parents – what would they have done?

 _I look forward to seeing you weep at our little cub’s marriage,_ Percival had written, _and – truth be known – I expect to weep myself._

Percival had written as if Roxy’s marriage to an Omega of good family were an inevitability. So had James always spoken, too, of Roxy’s future. Percival had based his entire will around that expectation. It has been hard, since reading Percival’s letters, to reconcile the evident love and earnestness of his intentions with the awful outcome.

His last letter Roxy has read so often as to know by heart. _My love, I don’t know what kind of Alpha I would be without your strength to lean upon. I wish I could give her another such as you... Our Roxy deserves a love such as we have known._

And now that she has it, Roxy thinks, as Tristan’s lips meet hers – what would they say, if they can see her now?

They part. Over Tristan’s shoulder, Roxy can see the portrait of her parents. Forever young, forever full of hope, Percival and James gaze upon Roxy without judgement.

Then Tristan’s hands are on Roxy’s shoulders, and she’s being turned sideways. “Try something for me,” Tristan murmurs. “Don’t think about the past. Don’t think about the future. I don’t think you’ve ever – just _look_.” Tristan points. “Look.”

The portrait Tristan points to is new – the occasion, in fact, for the small gathering Roxy is holding, reuniting the major figures in Roxy’s life. It depicts Roxy standing before Morton Crescent, lit up by the rising sun. There is indeed a grape arbor in the lower left-hand corner of the painting, and the mill dominates the village shown to the right. Wheat fields spread behind it through to the horizon. But by far Roxy’s favorite part of the painting is the plaque beneath it. _Roxanne Elizabeth Morton,_ it reads. _Eighth Earl Morton._

“I did it,” she says again.

“Enjoy the moment.”

“We shouldn’t linger.” Roxy shakes her head. “Dinner will be served shortly, and they can’t go in unless I’m there – I certainly don’t want to keep anyone waiting, after the ride they had to get here – we should really have eaten first and come to look later. Especially Eggsy.” His condition speaks to Harry and Eggsy having spent their mating moon to some purpose; there will be a new addition to the Hart family before the winter snows come. “And if I’m not much mistaken, Bedivere intends to make Michelle an offer this evening in the gardens. At least, he asked me if the oxeye daisies were in bloom. Those used to be Michelle’s favorite flower – he told me she’d wear them in her hair at Kingsman balls. No wonder she called her daughter Daisy. And then – ”

“Roxy,” Tristan says patiently. She cups Roxy’s cheek and makes Roxy stop talking for a moment. “I think, today, you should think about yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Yes, dearest.” Tristan kisses her temple her softly. “Yourself.”

Roxy slips an arm around Tristan’s waist. She looks at the painting, as Tristan has said, and she thinks – well, first she thinks of the grape arbors, and whether Morton Crescent might support one. It would certainly reduce their wine expenses. Then, when Roxy tries to put that thought aside, she finds herself thinking of irrigation: arbors need a lot of water, after all, and the wheat crop seems to only get thirstier with each passing year. Then she thinks of the mill, and the new turbine, and how Daisy had been right about the sluice gates. Next she finds herself thinking about Daisy’s schooling, and the letters she must write to secure Daisy’s admission to Eton, and the new wardrobe Daisy will require, and the allowance Roxy must make her. Which brings her back to the grape arbor. And then –

And then?

“When I stand here with you like this,” Tristan murmurs, putting her arm around Roxy’s waist in turn, “I think that this is how I want the rest of my life to be. Just like this. The two of us together. Roxy, will you – _can_ you – want the same thing?”

And then there is Tristan, and suddenly that seems like enough.

 _I fear that she will close herself off from it if allowed to,_ Percival had worried. _Didn’t I nearly do the same? But I believe I can rely on her love for Morton Crescent to drive her to happiness in spite of herself._

Not nearly the way Percival had expected. But in the end, in spite of everything, it had done just that.

“I do,” Roxy says out loud, and kisses Tristan in the portrait-gallery until the housemaid comes to tell them dinner is late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thanks to everyone who made this possible: the organizers of the challenge for providing the original impetus; elrhiarhodan, for saying we should do it, and being the best coauthor anyone could wish for; and everyone who read, commented, left kudos, and reblogged on tumblr. It's been a great journey and we hope you enjoyed it as much as we did!


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